I 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.

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 awkward 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 hysterical 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 me anyway, actually it just makes Adam talk louder.

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 general suckyness in those departments, I am simply not able to provide her with for 2 long months.

The obvious solution is summer camp. Yay! Summer camp with the friends and the games and the crafts and so on and so forth, whoo hoo! 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.

Thus we arrive at my decision to send her to Vacation Bible School. VBS as the cool Christians call it. VBS 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.

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.

But it's free!

So I sent her off to VBS 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!)

The last day arrived and we all got ready to attend the show/presentation/sneak attack church service that night. The kids were adorable in their Egyptian 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!"

We're going to hell.

.............

P.S. Yes, Adam and Eden. Ha ha ha. Irony.

Classification 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.
People generally fall into one of several broad categories- Male, female, kid, geezer etc. Which can be further divided into sub-categories such as hippy, farmer, rich bitch, hot guy, crack-head and so on and so forth. One of the most interesting 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.

1. Cute.
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 molesters in private, but they give off an air of old fashioned gentlemanlyness which I find very endearing. They are grandfatherly in a way your own grandfather may never have been. They wink.

2. Angry.
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 comparison 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.

3. Lonely.
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.

4. Dirty.
Dirty Old men must be further divided into literal and figurative sub-groups.
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. Their 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 *slight nod of the head* if they are in a good mood.
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 acknowledging 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.

5. Crack-headed Old Men.
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 meth. 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.

6. Utterly Bat-Shit Crazy Old Men.
Always entertaining, the UBSCOM can usually be identified by his wild, staring eyes and the smell of goat and vomit. He may well have forgotten one or more important articles of clothing this evening. He will be carrying something- possibly a broken walkie-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 UBSCOM who has embraced dementia 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.

PHD, it's real.

Hi! I'm back from Florida!

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 Caribbean wedding cruise!

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 forever 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.

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 Tupperware 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, awkward, 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.

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.

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 holiday making.

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 awkward. 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 8th. I will have no skin left by November 8th people! Sorry, being itchy makes me grumpy.

Seriously though, it was an awesome vacation and I will totally tell you all about it when I'm in a better mood, m'k?

There's a perfectly good explanation

My six year old takes a gymnastics class at the local high school every Monday evening.

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.

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 bounce on the trampoline and run around with the cool flowy rainbow ribbon things.

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.

Because several lockers are empty and unlocked she likes to hide in them, then jump out and yell BOO!

Because she told me to, I ran away from the locker and hid in a little alcove after she shut the door.

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.

Because she laughed, we did it again.

Because I had to move fast to hide before she opened the door, I stopped paying careful attention.

Because I heard little feet running, I leaped out with a yell to grab my daughter.

Because the child in front of me was not my child, he started to cry.

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.

Because my daughter was nowhere to be seen, his mother looked at me like I was on crack.

Because she has awesome timing, my two year old started banging on the inside of her locker, begging to be let out.

Because I'm a psychopath who likes to scare the bejezus out of toddlers and then trap them in school lockers.

Making a Memory

In 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 IV's 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?

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:
"Oh good, you're here! She's been crying all day!"
My mom was worried and asked if I was hurt or sick as she headed into the house. The kid said:
"No, she wants out of her seat. Mom keeps her there so she doesn't fall down the step."
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.
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?

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?

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.

Will Eden remember being bitten by that dog?

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?

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 CALMDOWNBEQUIETSTOP! 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 I 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.

Yummy

Eden: Mommy, I have some apple pie, pleeeease?

Me: We don't have any apple pie, Baby.

Eden: Ya! D'ere's a apple pie in da fridge. Daddy put it d'ere. Come see!

Hmm, 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! Mmm, pie. I could really go for some pie. I wonder if we have any ice cream...

Me: Eden, this is not an apple pie...this is a pineapple. I'm horribly disappointed. Get your boots, we're going to the store.

On Raising Heathens

I'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 un-divine human beings. That being said, there are times when I wonder if I should make more of an effort to educate my children.

Times like when we went to a church rummage sale and my then 4 year old asked:
"Is this a jail?" as she gazed around the church hall.
"Of course not." I told her, smiling nervously at the three Mennonite ladies who were selling baked goods. "This is a church."
"Oh" she replied. "What's a church?"

Or when, just before Christmas this year, we were driving past a cemetery and the child, now aged 6, asked:
"What's with all those big lower case 'T's' over in that dying yard?"

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.
The original is in italics and my commentary is added.

Christian View on Rights

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. Damn you Trudeau for trying to separate Church and State!
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. I really don't think I can even begin to cover how wrong this is. Encouraging hatred is emotionally damaging and disturbing to me.
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. Which came first? Disease or abortion? It's a chicken or egg kind of question isn't it?
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. Freedom is never a good thing. Down with Freedom!
Canada should be more harsh with criminal penalties. Criminals are getting off easy because Canada is getting More and more whimpy. Capital punishment should be brought back in. "Those who kill man shall be killed by man." 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?
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. Dude, if you can get past 13 you're doing great.
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. 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!
In conclusion there should be more respect for what the Bible teaches us.
Adam, Gr. 8

From the mouths of babes.

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.

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.

When I do good, I feel good; when I do bad, I feel bad, and that is my religion. - Abraham Lincoln

P.S. Adam has evolved, thank God (or whatever) but I'm still opposed to brainwashing children, you know, just in case it should stick.

Just 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! Whoo Hoo! 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.

I finally got down to business and downloaded the forms from the uber-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.

My paperwork went through without a hitch. Fantastic. Adam's signature was too faint. Easy Fix. Then it was Skylar's turn.

"Is this the only birth certificate you have for her?" asks the courteous government employee.

"Yes?" 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."

"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.

"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.

"No, this wouldn't be something you're likely to have at home. You have to request it from the government."

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.

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.

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.

Do you know where I'm going with this yet?

Today I got a letter from the office of the Registrar General. Yay! 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:

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?

Girl- Oh, you must have paid for a first copy when what you wanted was a replacement.

Me- Nuh uh. I don't have one, and I need one so we can get a passport.

Her- Our records indicate one was issued in 2004.

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.

Her- Are you sure? It's a yellow sheet of paper with a seal type thingy in the corner and at the top it says Statement of Live Birth.

Then my head exploded.

Me- Statement of Live Birth? I HAVE a fucking Statement of Live Birth. That's 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 Goddammedmotherfucking Statement of Live Birth? Why did the douchebag 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 Cocksuckingshitencrustedpusspewingcunt Statement of Live Birth!?

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.

Her- I'm sorry, once you apply for a replacement the original is no longer valid.

Me- What? But they refused to issue me a new one because they want another ten bucks.

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.

Me- I have to send another ten dollars, bringing my total up to forty-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?

Her- No, we don't offer that service online.

Me- Why the hell not? They already have my credit card information and clearly some sort of primitive banking capabilities, so why not just...

Her- I'm sorry, you'll have to fill out the form in the message you received 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.

Me-How long?

Her-About 8 weeks.

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.

*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.

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.

Have 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.

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 pissy 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.

I remember being excited about snow when I was a kid. I know I used to have fun building snowmen and forts and going tobogganning, 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...

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.

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.

That's what sisters are for

Overheard via the baby monitor after putting my 6 and 2 year old girls to bed:

thump thump thump...

Eden: My want snuggle, Sky'yer.

Skylar: OK, get in. I'll tell you a story.

aww, how sweet!

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.

Eden: My not scared.

Skylar: I know you're not scared right now, but someday you might get scared that there's monsters under your bed.

Eden: Monsters? In my bed?

Uh Oh

Big Sisters: Always there to comfort you...but probably the reason you were scared in the first place.

Terrible 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.

I began to suspect she was not 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.

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?
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? Omygodomygod!

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. OMYGODOMYGODOMYGOD 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 ohmyfuckinggod she's dead! 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 seepin' in da dra'wer." 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 shit's gross and should be corrected, no matter how glad I am that she's alive.

The end of my summer, condensed.

It has been pointed out to me that I have not written in a while. Whoo hoo, somebody noticed!
Sooo...let's see:

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 (ish) and fell in love with the scenery and rode ferries and skybusses 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." best delivered with a Scottish brogue. To the other one: Sorry, you shoulda been. It was boss.

I worked, but I don't get paid enough to deal with shit like this:
Stupid Kid:What can I get for this? dumping a hand full of coins on my counter and waiting expectantly.
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. translation: you're not cute enough to get away with this bullshit.
Stupid Kid: How much would it be for a Froster and a Skittles and a Rollo and a Push-Pop?
Me: What size Froster?
Stupid Kid: What's the biggest I can get for this much money?
Me: How much money do you have?
Stupid Kid: uuuuuuhhh...less than three dollars?
Me: You can't get all that stuff.
Stupid Kid: How much is a large Froster and a bag of Skittles with tax?
Me: Around 3 dollars.
Stupid Kid: How much exactly?
Me: Here's a calculator if you'd like to figure it out.
Stupid Kid: Huh? can't you just scan it all in?
Me: 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 receipt 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. "No."
Stupid Kid: UUh...what do I do?
Me: Jesus, this twit has got to be 13 years old, what the hell do they teach them in school these days? Add the prices of the Froster and the Skittles together. 1.69+0.99.
Me, to another customer: That's $1.34, Sir. Debit?
Stupid Kid: A dollar thirty four plus what?
Me: No, not you.
Stupid Kid: Then what?
Me: multiply by 0.12 for the tax.
Stupid Kid: Divide by what?
Me, to another customer: Sorry, only the bags of milk are on sale, not the jugs.
Stupid Kid: Is that all?
Me: No, add that number to your original total.
Stupid Kid: A dollar sixty-nine?
Me: No, the Skittles and the Froster together.
Stupid Kid: I forget that.
we repeat the process, step by step, between serving customers, making coffee and pricing chocolate bars.
Stupid Kid: I got a hundred and forty-two dollars and seventy-three cents.
Me: Yes, that's exactly right.

My kid started school. Grade school. Real, 5 day a week, no longer any kind of pre-school school. Where the big kids go. Every day.
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 asinine 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:
"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?"
Well done, my child.

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 Internet 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 hers in the background and she said she was looking for a home for her dog. He's a three year old Cocker Spaniel (read: curly ears) and he's free. The next day we had a dog.

More on that later.

beware: sentimentality and TMI ahead.

So like I said, my baby is 2. She is not, in fact, a baby anymore. Gone is the floppy squooshyness, the immobility, the need to remain in the vicinity 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.
Two human beings seems like a pretty staggering accomplishment to me, so we're done...I think.
Another baby is just not feasible for us. We're broke. We are crammed into a tiny apartment, 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...

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 Mirena IUD installed (implanted? inserted? there's really no good way to say it.)

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 proctologists, naturopaths, 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.

So here I am, waiting for this guy to come in and insert some hardware up my hoo-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:

"When was your last menstrual period?"
"First week of June."
"Uum, Honey? Do you know what day it is."
"Yes, yes it's the middle of July, I know. But really, this is totally normal for me. 6ish weeks is my usual."
"It's more like 8ish."
"...(mental math) hmm. Still...I really don't think..."
"You're supposed to get these in the first week after."
"Someone should probably have told me that. Anyway, Doc was on vacation. Can you run a quick test?"
"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."
"I really don't think..."
"Is it at all possible?"
"Well...there's always a slight possibility."

I waited, they conferred. Questions were asked on all sides and in the end we decided to go ahead with the procedure 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 arsed and be-stirruped and staring at the ceiling in the attitude of nonchalant mortification common to women the world over. Then it was done.

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.

I hoped, for two completely different things:

-I can barely handle the two kids I have sometimes, I don't want more!
-A boy might be nice, for a change.
-We can't afford it.
-People make do with less, and you already have most of the baby stuff.
-I want to dedicate my attention to the girls I already have.
-Never again to feel the liquid acrobatics of a baby in your belly?
-What right do we have to keep bringing people into this uncertain world?
-Tiny, fuzzy head nuzzled, sleeping on your chest.
-There's no room in this house.
-No more first baths? First steps? First giggles?
-I want to go back to school.
-A tiny little bottom that fits perfectly in the palm of your hand?
-I'll be working at fucking Macs forever!
-Shopping for tiny onesies, fluffy diapers and wee little shoes?
-Putting three children through school?
-Seeing the world through completely new eyes again?
-The crying, The whining.
-The toothless smiles, the totally unrestrained laughs?
-The LABOUR?
-The contentment on a tiny face feeding at your breast while a small hand plays idly with your hair?
-The very real fear of insanity and depression?
-The chance to pick out the perfect name?
-I'm not a good enough mother. I don't deserve any more.
-The chance to watch a new person grow?

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 definitely won't want to start over with all the baby crap then right? Right?

Evil genius in training.

We were playing in the front yard when the phone rang.
"Goober, could you watch your sister for a sec? Just make sure she stays right here on the porch, OK?"
"Yep, I sure can."
"I'll be right back."
A minute later I came back outside to find Skylar quietly skooting around in a ride-on car and Eden...nowhere.
"Skylar, where's Eden?"
"She went that way." *pointing down the sidewalk beyond our house*
Note- Five years is too young to babysit. Who knew?
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.
I leaped across the lawn to the sidewalk and saw her nearing the end of the block.
"EDEN, STOP!"
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.
Oh, shit. Here comes Mom and she looks pissed. What to do? What to do? I've got it!
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:
"MAMA, HUG?"
I defy anyone to spank that.

Twi-hard. It's sad that I even know that word.

It's all Adam's fault.

A month ago he rented Twilight based on "You like vampires, right?" Yes, yes I do. I don't know why, but they make me all tingly in my special place. What can I say? Bloodsuckers are HAWT. My first celebrity crush was on Angel, who should so totally have ended up with Buffy, I mean WTF? They were meant to be together, although Spike was pretty damn nice too and.....But seriously, Twilight? Isn't that some teenybopper angsty pop shit? We watched it. I bitched and commentated and made snide remarks for the first 45 minutes as I am wont to do. It was awkward and melodramatic and predictable..and yet oddly compelling?

The next day was mind numbingly boring at work, and Twilight was right there on the bookshelf, and I'd already seen the movie so why not leaf through a couple pages while I waited for things to pick up? I bought the damn book and finished it that night.

Then I had to go to a book store for the second volume in the series. First I pretended to browse nonchalantly through the aisles, deflecting helpful sales staff in the hopes that I could find it without having to admit to anyone that I was looking for a book meant for 13 year old junior-high girls. When I got to the checkout the smart ass college kid at the till just couldn't shove it in a bag quietly, oh no.

"Ah, Twilight. You got sucked in, huh? I tried to read the first one but I just couldn't take it. They're really not well written at all. I just couldn't get in to it. I can't believe it's surpassed Harry Potter in sales"

Shut up, boy. I know that they're not "well written" I've studied English and Literature and I'm well aware that these books don't qualify as either, except in the loosest possible terms. They're awkward, underdeveloped and lacking in almost every possible literary attribute....but yet...I can't look away.

I can't explain it. Why are these characters so compelling? They are one dimensional and juvenile. They don't swear or go to the bathroom or even have sex until the fourth damned book. But for some reason, I am Bella Swan.

I devoured the second book and asked Adam to pick up the third and fourth volumes on his way home from work the next day. He can escape any embarrassment by claiming they're a gift.

Then I watched the movie again.

Then I started reading magazines when the film's stars were on the covers because although I truly wish I didn't care whether or not the actors portraying Edward and Bella are dating in real life, I do! Oh, how I do!

But wait, it gets worse!

Adam asked me an innocent question about how some element of the movie compared to the book....and we are now reading them aloud to each other every evening. We're a quarter of the way through the last book and I got seriously pissed off at Adam last night for reading ahead while I was at work and I went to bed all moody and refused to read with him anymore if he was going to CHEAT and I shut off the light and curled up in a little ball with my back to him, because obviously; I really am that immature.

It would have been a really good pout too, except for the fact that I am apparently incapable of producing my own body heat. I couldn't sleep because my feet were so cold and Adam knows this about me, so eventually he reached over and voluntarily put my icy toes on his warm leg to heat me up and it's hard to stay angry when confronted by that kind of love.

This has been my confession.

Please excuse me now while I go buy a Robert Pattinson poster for my bedroom.

Is there a law against molesting spermophiles?

As I was heading to work the other day I happened to notice a dog turd squirming around under a tree at the edge of my yard. It seemed odd to me that a dog turd would be moving around under it's own power so I went in for a closer look, because I'm a freak.

It was a baby squirrel, all small and blind and helpless, wriggling around like so much cat-bait. I had to get to work so I called Adam out and told him to put it back up in the tree. Then I headed off, filled with the warm glow of a good deed well done, despite the fact that I kind of figured it was as good as dead anyway.

When I passed the tree the next day it was back down again, and this time it was actually on the road. Gotta be dead now, right? No. I leaned closer, because apparently I like to examine roadkill as well as dog shit, and saw that it was still moving. Fuck.

"Adam, come save the baby squirrel....again!"

So Adam came out, but Skylar got there first and immediately picked up the adorable little bundle of rabies. Again, I had to get to work, so I left. Once again secure in the knowledge that I had helped a cute little furry creature...well, you know, not me personally, but still. I assumed Adam would stick it back in the tree. Maybe he would even call the vet or the humane society and find out if some sort of animal rescue person would come and collect the sweet little rodent. Perhaps he would enquire as to the likelyhood of our daughter dying of Squirrel Flu or distemper. Hopefully he would prevent her from dressing it up in Barbie clothes and kissing it.

I did NOT expect to come home to find him googling recipes for "squirrel formula" and feeding our squirrels (yes, squirrels, plural) with a baby medicine dropper.

"Squirrels are surprisingly delicate, you can't feed them cow's milk or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and you can't feed them if they're cold, or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Skylar says the black one is named Owen and the brownish one is Cole."

"After the boys across the road?"

"Uh huh. You have to feed them every two to four hours."

"I do?"

"And after you feed them you have to rub their genitals with a warm, wet cotton ball to stimulate them."

"Excuse me? Would you mind clarifying that last part?"

"According to this (gesturing towards the all knowing google search) baby squirrels can't just go on their own. They can't relieve themselves unless their mother stimulates them to do so, and if you don't they'll die of constipation and kidney failure"

"Well, that's just...the dumbest survival trait ever, isn't it? Seriously, this is a flawed species."

"Do you want me to just drown them now?"

"No! I just..."

"It's a little tricky to get them to hold still at first, but after a minute they relax."

"I'll bet."

"Have a nice day, I've gotta go to work."

So then he left. I decided to do my own research, just in case he was just trying to fuck with me and was laughing all the way to work, imagining me spending the day rubbing off infant tree rats.

Turns out it's true. So I fed them, which was freaking adorable, and I rubbed them, which was not. They're boys! Baby squirrels have bigger dingdongs than you'd expect. There, now you've learned something today. You're welcome, you sick freak.

I also made many phone calls. To the vet, who told me to call the OSPCA. To the OSPCA, who are not taking wildlife due to renovations. To the Humane Society, who wouldn't take them because we're out of the region. To the Shady Acres Squirrel Sanctuary, where I tried to leave a message, but was hindered by the fact that I was trying not to laugh hysterically at the mental image conjured up by that title ( A huge estate, run by the Squirrel Lady from Rat Race (wouldja like ta buy a squir'l?) with a sign reading "We're nuts about squirrels!" etc.) And finally, to another Humane society who agreed to take them so long as we dropped them off, since we were once again, out of their region.

Then we drove for over an hour to deliver our spermophiles (Look it up, it's not technically accurate, but isn't it an awesome word? Filthy little nut lovers.) To some experts who told me off for feeding wild animals and suggested I should have just have left them to freeze or be eaten by our cats. Not in so many words, but still.

So ya, that was my day. But doesn't this cuteness pretty much make up for it?

First Kisses

I was in the first grade. I was playing with some kids in the snowy school yard and one of the other girls told me to lay down so she could make me into a snowball. She rolled me over and over while snowflakes caught in my eyelashes and filled my mouth as I laughed. Suddenly, she stopped and I looked around to find that we had crossed to the other side of the playground and ended up next to another group of kids.

"Josh!" she called out "I brought you another Snow Bunny to kiss!"

Josh came running over as fast as his sodden snow pants would allow and bent down over me. I shoved him. Hard. Then I ran away.

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I was in the fourth grade. There was a club for kids who were "going out" with each other. They called themselves NALA (Not A Loner Anymore) and they met behind a tree every recess to see which couple could hold a kiss for the longest. Someone asked me if I wanted to join.

"No way! I like being a Loner, thanks."

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I was in the ninth grade. I was camping with cadets. There was a boy there that I really liked and he liked me too. He smuggled some booze onto the bus for us and promised me we'd sneak away some night and have a party. We flirted and hugged and he told me I was beautiful and kissed my hand each night before bed. But there were scary MP's and officers around making nuisances of themselves with all of their No Fraternization! and Anyone Found in Possession of Contraband Will Face Criminal Charges and Possibly be Shot! and At No Time is Anyone Ever Allowed to go Anywhere in Groups of Less Than Four! and the opportunities for intimacy were somewhat limited.

---------------------------------------------------------------

I was sixteen. It was April. Adam and I had met between Christmas and New Years and we'd seen each other a few times since then. First on Valentines Day, then at a mutual friend's birthday and finally for a few one on one visits. He'd stopped by for one such visit and we'd taken a walk down the trail by my house. It was a warm spring day and we were lying on a hill, talking and watching the people who walked by on the trail below us. The shape of the land and the early budding bushes shielded us so that we could see down, but no one could see up, and we were having fun making up stories about the people who passed by us unawares. Adam rolled up over me and I could see that this was it, he was finally going to go in for a kiss. I panicked, just for a second. What am I doing? This is stupid! Holy shit, no one knows I'm out here and I've suddenly noticed that this is not a boy I'm out here with; this is a MAN, He's 18 and he's a lot bigger than me and a hell of a lot stronger and if he wanted to he could...Then I snapped out of it. I felt safe and happy and I wanted him to do it, just hurry up and kiss me already! This is my first kiss and I want to be the KissEE and not the KissER so just hurry up and...and then he kissed me.

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"Guess what happened at school today!"

"What, Goober?"

"A boy from the other class kissed me three times!"

*insert moment of maternal panic for 'Ohmygod, are we HERE already?'and 'You are so not MY kid.' Followed swiftly by 'How freaking cute is she, bragging with that huge smile on her face?'

"Which boy?"

"Uuuumm...Hayden, I think?"

"Is Hayden your boyfriend?"

"No. We were rolling and rolling down the hill and then we stopped and got stuck in a pile at the bottom and then he kissed me once and then we rolled again and we pretended to get stuck again and he kissed me two more times and then he said 'Aah I need a cloth' and went to go wash the kiss off"

*insert moment of jealousy for total romantic awesomeness of that story, except for the part about the cloth, maybe.*

"Isn't that funny, Mommy? I thought boys didn't even LIKE girls! Why do you think he did that?"

*insert Adam returning home from work*

"Daddy! A boy from the other class kissed me three times!"

"Where?"

"At school."

"That's not what I....never mind."

*insert moment for me giggling uncontrollably and Adam to contemplate' Ohmygod, are we HERE already?' and 'Add 'shotgun' to next shopping list.' *

The moral of the story: My 5 year old has now been kissed by as many men as I have and also her first kiss falls almost exactly 7 years after my own. How fucking sad is that?

Luckily, he has no idea what a blog is.

My Grandpa is in his 80's. He's the only male parental figure I've ever known and he taught me to ride a bike and fly a kite and build stuff and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew. I'm trying hard to remember all that right now.

He's also the one who slapped me across the face once when I was four or five, right in front of all my little friends as we played in the back yard. He yelled that I'd left the garage door unlocked. I wasn't tall enough to reach the latch on that door.

I once read a book by Diana Gabaldon in which an old man is described as "a mule" Not precisely mean, and not precisely stupid, but incredibly stubborn and once he gets an idea in his head it's impossible to shift him off of it without a stout stick between the eyes. She put it better than that of course, but I'm too pissed off to look up the actual quote right now. Anyway, that's my Grandpa.

He's gotten old and belligerent. He can't handle a single element of change. Nothing is ever to be out of it's place and no one is to do anything without his will and consent.

I have kids. Kids equal change and noise and mess and they have a tendency to do unpredictable things at random moments.

Ever since we got here Skylar has been fascinated by the old camping trailer in the backyard. We never took it camping. It has been in the same place since we moved in 20 years ago. When we were little it was the perfect playhouse, complete with child sized appliances, dishes, bunk beds etc. We were in there all the time. Stupidly, I told Skylar as much. She's been desperate to get in there since we arrived last fall. Now the snowbanks are gone and I gave in to the pleading and let her in this morning. She had just met the neighbour boys and wanted something really cool to show them. She nearly burst with excitement as I shoved some plywood out of the way and wrenched open the swollen and distended door. The trailer has been rotting for two decades and it would surely fall to pieces if anyone tried to pull it anywhere now. It's dirty and mouldy and full of old junk we couldn't think of anyplace else to store. Mice have eaten through a seat cushion and the window in the door is broken, but it's still a pretty kick ass place to be if you're 5.

I watched as Skylar and her friends played happily for 15 minutes or so, then I took Eden inside to put her down for her nap. As I got back downstairs I could hear Grandpa bellowing at Skylar.
"YOU GET OUT OF THERE! GET OUT OF THERE, NOW!"

The little boys ran off so fast it's lucky there were no cars coming as they flew home across the street. Skylar looked stupefied and could only ask "Why?"

"BECAUSE IT'S MINE! I DON'T WANT YOU IN THERE MAKING A MESS, PULLING RUBBISH OUT ALL OVER THE YARD. KEEP OUT OF IT!"

Pretty much the same words he said to me when I was her age, right before clouting me across the head. I was outside and between them faster than I would have thought possible.

"It's just old toys in there..." I began.

"IT'S MINE, AND YOU KEEP THOSE KIDS OUT!"

It's not his, neither is the stuff inside. The kids hadn't gone in unsupervised and they weren't making a mess or bringing anything out. The whole point of the trailer when I was small was as a place to play. But there's no point telling him any of that. He just yells and thunders and turns red. He goes back to the same old arguments about how he owns this house and pays the bills (both of which are NOT true) So we can never argue with him. All we do is try to placate him, no matter how unreasonable he's being. We're always afraid he'll give himself a heart attack or a stroke, or punch someone. He's old, but he's fit and strong. Usually it bugs me, but I behave myself. I can take him yelling at Adam for some ridiculous perceived error in the sorting of the recycling, or yelling at me for somehow clogging up his toilet by supposedly flushing diapers down my toilet (um, what? Even if I did use disposable diapers, which I don't, I wouldn't flush them down a toilet, wtf?) But it took every scrap of my self control to keep my temper after that old grump made my little girl cry.

I'm not good at repressing. It makes my head ache. That's why I'm here writing this utterly boring story. So please excuse me while I vent some things that I honestly don't mean and would never actually say:

Shut the fuck up old man! You don't own this place and we do pay rent. We're the ones who just finished raking all the leaves and fixing the eaves troughs so don't give me this shit about how we're making the place look like crap because there are a few kids toys around. How dare you make my little girl cry for no damn reason at all? Do you know what she said to me when I found her sobbing on the front steps after she ran away from you? "I miss Grammy, I wish she was here. She would know how to make Grandpa be nice." It's true. My Grandma would do anything in the world for a child and she kept you from being a total bastard all the time. Keep up the crazy talk so we can put you in a home and have some peace around here!*

*I don't mean that, well not all of it anyway. I still love him, after all, he's the one who taught me to ride a bike, and fly a kite, and build stuff, and he took me for walks down the old train tracks where the wildflowers grew.

Rescue me!

R-E-S-C-U-E
Rescue Aid Society.
Heads held high,
Touch the sky
You mean everything to me

Repeat ad infinitum

Of all the stupid damned things to have stuck in my head THIS is the tune I can't stop humming right now!