Signs You are a Writer

I should be preparing for a presentation tomorrow, so of course, I'm stalling...Enjoy!

Signs That You Are a Writer

• You covet office supplies. Sticky notes, pens, notebooks, pencils-your hands itch to touch them. The stationery aisle in the office supply store is a wonderful place. 

• You regularly eavesdrop on conversations in the park, in coffee shops, in lines…and store away bits of dialogue and expressions like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter.

• You stop in mid-sentence when an interesting character crosses your sightline so you can memorize the details for later. If you can get away with it, you scribble it down in the ever-present notebook.

• You get distracted by poor spelling and grammar on a menu or a sign. On more than one occasion, you have offered to fix a presenter’s slides because misplaced apostrophes were driving you batty.

• You not only have an opinion on the Oxford comma, you have held a spirited debate about it on more than one occasion.

• You own more than one dictionary and use them regularly for their intended purpose.

• You prefer an actual thesaurus to the online version because there’s a satisfying feeling to turning the pages and running your finger over the lines of words to find the right one.

• At least once in your writing career, your characters have taken over the story and refused to do what you wanted them to do according to your outline. You also talk to your characters when they are refusing to toe the line.

• You can clearly articulate the difference between your and you’re, its and it's and there, they’re and their. You judge people who cannot.

• You use proper grammar and spelling in text messages and tweets. Your speed might be slower, but you are rarely misunderstood although the 140 character thing is challenging.

• Your google search history would raise eyebrows and cause law enforcement to look at you more closely. 

• Brilliant writing makes you catch your breath, and then cry with longing at being able to craft a sentence like that one day.

• You express yourself with words on the page, rather than speaking. You are much more witty on paper and rather a disappointment in person. It's okay though, you would rather stay home!

Cross Post from The Sandwich Chronicles

Perseveration and ARND

The Truth Will Out

There's a big controversy in Canada right now over a well-known CBC radio host and his growing number of alleged sexual assaults. I will not waste one column millimetre in acknowledging him. This one is for his victims.

I was around 12. I was wearing a striped turtleneck and jeans. I had developed breasts early, but I didn't flaunt them, and I was very naive. My mom was visiting in the kitchen, and I wandered into the living room of the home we were visiting to see what was on TV. I sat down on the arm of the chair, and this person I had known all my life reached around me to give me a hug...except his hand didn't stay there-it ended up on my breast. A worker's hand, it was callused and not quite clean...but his fingernails were immaculate. I pushed the hand away, and it returned. I jumped up, and he looked at me and said "Do you blame me. Your breasts are huge."

"Yes", I said and headed to my mom. I told her what happened driving home, but she never confronted or did anything about it. She told me to forget about it because it would cause trouble if I said anything..

 But the thing was, I did blame myself, and it took me years to put the blame where it belonged, on this person who had known me all my life, and with whom I still have the occasional interaction when duty requires it. When he tried to hand a ball to my daughter when she was small, I flew in front of her and told him to leave her alone. No one protected me, but by God, my daughter would be safe from him. She's known since toddlerhood that he is a bad man and to stay away.

I was dry-raped as a teen. What started out as flirtation and kissing progressed to me frantically holding my shorts closed.(they were light blue corduroy)  He was wearing sweatpants, with nothing underneath. He lay on top of me, slamming repeatedly into me. When he stood up, there was a ring of semen. I never said anything because I shouldn't have been there in the first place.

I was date raped in university. I went back to a dorm room and things turned rough. When I said no, he didn't take no for an answer. I shouldn't have been there in the first place.

When I worked in Customs, there was a senior member of management who had  been accused of more than one sexual assault and sexual harassment. He was using the system to his advantage and using appeals process to keep his job until it was time to retire, so if a female officer had to go to his office during a shift, she took a male officer with her, or she went with another female. Under no circumstances did she go by herself. And newbies were warned-don't go up there alone.

There is a video making the social media rounds of a woman in jeans and a t-shirt walking through the streets of New York. More than 100 sexually charged and inappropriate comments were made to her over the 10 hours of film, and all she did was walk. I can tell you as a survivor of the Toronto Transit System commute that I perfected the art of seemingly losing my balance and stepping back in such a way as to land a heel on the top of a groper's foot, between the 2nd and 3rd toe. When full force is applied, it's excruciating, and the groper would hurriedly step back from me. HE couldn't say anything because he had been trying to fondle me, and I could apologize profusely about losing my balance...except I never did. One steely glare and the groper would flee.

When I was working in the postal unit, a guy came in to claim his movies "Busty" and the "Best of Big Busty". When I confiscated them, he suggested I should look into appearing in the next one. My male coworkers laughed and agreed. The only other woman officer left the counter so she wouldn't have to defend me. I was on probation and I needed the job. I kept my mouth shut.

My early encounter had a lasting impact on me. I stopped wearing anything even vaguely revealing or form fitting. I have never worn a bikini again. I covered, camouflaged and hid, because his voice in my head said "you are to blame." I finally had a breast reduction after years of unwanted comments and attention.

 I have nothing but respect and praise for the increasing number of women who are finding their brave and telling their stories. Why is it that it took 9 brave souls before the narrative changed? Why is the first question in an assault often "well, what was she wearing?" ir "What were you doing there?"  Why is there a perpetual implication that the woman somehow brought it on through her actions , her demeanor, or her dress?

It shouldn't matter if a woman is dressed provocatively, is an initial willing participant in an encounter, had a lapse in judgement and went to someone's hotel room, house or dorm room, or ignored the trickle or flood of doubt seeping through her veins and went somewhere she shouldn't have been. No means no. Full stop. Consent can be withdrawn at any point. "I changed my mind." is a valid reason.

I don't know anyone who has experienced sexual assault and remained unchanged. It changes you irrevocably. And yet, we as a society do a very poor job of sheltering and protecting victims. Instead of saying "I believe you." we say "Are you sure? What were you doing there? Oh that's just Bob being Bob." or "What were you wearing."

So to the victms coming forward, I say: "I believe you." "It wasn't your fault." "You're doing the right thing." Because although I wasn't a victim of this particular predator, I have been a victim of ones before, I believe you, and I have from the start. The Truth will Out.

Changing Expectations

I was an A student. I made honour roll, I attended a private school in Montreal that required an entrance exam. 75 was a fail and if you had 85+ in the course going into exams, you were exempted from writing the final. I wrote 1 final (in Math) in my 2 years there, and I had an 83...I completed my Masters in 8 months. I've taken a number of courses since, and I'd go back to school in a heart beat.

I'm not bragging. I'm framing my background. I had one C+ in my life, and that was in 2nd year Stats. Since I had a B in first term, my overall mark was a B-.

And then we adopted my daughter. She's been diagnosed with ARND-Alcohol Related Neurodevelopmental Disorder,  due to her birth mom's alcohol and crack use during pregnancy. My daughter doesn't have the visual facial clues, but she certainly has the aftermath. And since she started school, her mother has had to shift academic expectations, which has been a tougher lesson than expected.

My parents had very high academic expectations. My father could find the typos in an A+ paper (and did). I would have to explain where the other 8 marks went if I brought home a 92. I missed an academic scholarship in university by .2% because the prof chose to round down rather than up and my GPA was .2 too low for the scholarship cut off. I had visions of my daughter following in my academic path.

My daughter is smart. She's visual-if she sees something, she can do it. If she can find the pattern in things, she can do it. She makes Rainbow Loom creations by the dozen by watching YouTube videos. She has trouble processing auditory information and misses most of the instructions given verbally because by the time she has processed the instruction, she's forgotten the beginning. She has anxiety that is exasperated by stress, and trying to learn new things in a "loud" classroom is stressful. She was always the last kid out of the school. There was an inverse relationship between how cold it was outside, how much of a human popsicle her mother had become and how long it took her to get ready. After speaking with a FASD expert, I now understand that she can't process what to do if too many people are doing it at the same time so she waits. She was getting overwhelmed trying to remember what to do to get ready-put her lunchbag in her backpack, bring her homework, change her shoes etc. So now I go later and neither one of us are as stressed or cranky.

Our school is doing its best to help her and we've been blessed with good teachers, for the most part. The very nature of the learning environment is not conducive to my daughter's challenges. We often have a massive meltdown right after she gets home. She's held it together all day, and now she's in a safe place and it all comes out. She tries hard, and once she grasps a concept, she's okay, but it can take a LONG TIME for that to happen and when she forgets to bring home her homework, or write it down then I'm flying blind trying to help her.That happens often and she's just finished Grade 3.

How that translates is that her academic marks do not reflect her actual abilities and talents. She freezes on tests or rushes through them, making silly errors. Her report cards do not reflect her actual abilities, but some of the marks have had me biting my tongue because I have to keep reminding myself that she is doing her best, and deals with unbelievable challenges every day because of the damage to her brain that her birth mom inflicted on her. Just as you wouldn't yell at a blind child for not reading from a printed text held up to their eyes, I have to remember that in my daughter's case, with rare exceptions, it's not a won't it's a can't.

It's been a tough lesson for me, and I have to keep reminding myself that she is doing her best. They may not have been the marks that I would have received, but as she said to me one day last year, "Mommy, I'm not like you or Hermione (because we were in a Harry Potter phase)...I don't like school." We work together to help her understand, and she's doing her best.

On Mother's Day, she wrote a list of things she loved about me. "Helps me with my homework" was mentioned twice. It's a painful period for both of us, but it's making a difference, and at the end of the day, that's all that matters.

So the expectation is my problem to deal with, not hers. She's trying her best, and that's all that matters. If the school can't teach how she learns, then maybe the school should change how they teach...and I'll fill in the gaps in the meantime.

Choices

Sometimes in life, you just have to say "screw it." Whether that means ordering the egg McMuffin and double hash browns, ignoring the dust bunnies in favour of a favourite show, ordering the $10 dessert or giving up and going to bed, knowing you will be up at the crack of stupid the next day. And sometimes, it means giving up a fight, taking your marbles and going home. 

I don't talk much about my faith. I believe that faith is deeply personal, and it is possible to be a deeply spiritual person without being a member of an organized religion. I also believe the God of my understanding doesn't care what building you are sitting in, what clothes you are wearing, what words you use or what book you reference, as long as you live a life that is loving to each other, peaceful in nature and which leaves your little corner of the world more loving. As it happens, however, I have been a member of the Catholic church all of my life. Recent events have shaken my membership in that institution, and in some ways, also shaken the bedrock of my faith.

I grew up in an alcoholic home, and especially when I was a teen, the only constant I had every week was the ritual of mass. I knew that I could walk into any Catholic church anywhere in the world, and it would be the same, consistent, reassuring and constant. It was the faith that I grew up in, and for more years than I can remember, it was the faith that I have practiced through my singing, by being a choir member, a cantor, a funeral cantor, a wedding cantor...Singing is how I have always prayed because music breaks through barriers that everything else resists. 

When my daughter arrived, she started attending church with us. I would sit in the side pew of the choir loft and I often fed her a bottle while simultaneously singing the offertory hymn with the aid of a music stand. When she got older, she sat in the back pew with my husband while I did my choir cantor thing at the front. Until she was in school full-time, if I had to sing at a funeral, she would go and spend time with my mom. When that option was no longer available, she would come to church with me and sit in the side pew. She was used to funerals and behaved reasonably well for the most part.

My daughter has recently been diagnosed with ARND-Alcohol Related Neurodevelopmental Disorder. It is a form of Fetal Alcohol, and is a legacy of her birth mom, along with the crack. What it means, is that while she does not have the facial cues, alcohol caused permanent brain damage. Her left and right sides didn't develop equally, developed partially and parts didn't develop at all. She has trouble with transitions, she has trouble with too much noise, light and sound, and has a myriad of other challenges that we are dealing with and determining. And it is all internal, so the meltdown and movement looks like misbehaving rather than overload, and it is often judged as lenient parenting rather than understanding what my daughter needs to deal with an impending overload.

My daughter misbehaved at church. There's a lot more to it, but that encapsulates it. I made some poor decisions trying to give her responsibility...and  I was informed that unless someone was with her 100% of the time from now on, she couldn't attend mass. Choir members had complained. If I brought her alone, my only job was to "sit in the corner and make her behave." The message was delivered by someone that I would have called a friend, and more insult to injury, the mother of two special needs adults. And the message had been sent from the priest.

To say that I was shocked, hurt and stunned is an understatement. The message was delivered in front of some of the choir members. The institution that preaches acceptance and tolerance had just turned its back on one of its young members, and one with special needs. Nowhere in any of my bibles does it say "let the little children come to me, but only if they sit down and behave..." Pope Francis speaks of acceptance, didn't seem at all worried that a little fellow wandered up, sat in his chair and gave him a hug. Pope Francis patted his head and kept going. The message was clear-I was welcome. My daughter was banned. 

This has rocked me on a fundamental level. I know that my daughter is going to have a rough go, but of all places, church should have been the safe, welcome place. After a week of agonizing, praying, crying, trying to take the emotion out of it and figuring out what my daughter would learn if I stayed, and what she would learn if I left, I chose to leave. I kept coming back to "screw it." While I don't know for certain, I have a strong idea of who complained, and since it worked once, they will do it again, because let's face it, some of the least Christian people in the church are usually part of the organization and some of the least tolerant may be standing at the pulpit.

At the end of the day, if my daughter isn't welcome, then neither am I because she needs to know with 100% certainty that I have her back, even when she screws up. There will be enough people knocking her down and judging her. I need to be her safe place to fall, even when it's a crash landing. 

So the first time in I have no idea how many years-25-30? I am just a parishioner. I am no longer tied to a certain mass on a certain day and time. We church surfed for a couple of months, and I think we have settled on a new place. The priest is on a personal mission to get my daughter to smile, and upon hearing some of the reason why we changed churches (because he had been trying to encourage me to join that church for awhile) promptly turned and invited her to become an altar server. He wasn't at all concerned with her challenges, he was willing to work around them. 

It was very disconcerting to sit in the congregation during Palm Sunday. Easter is the liturgical time of year that spoke to me the most. I suspect that Good Friday and Easter Sunday will be equally disconcerting. Having my child rejected by the place that was my anchor has likewise pulled my sense of belonging out of its foundation. I attend church now, but my sense of connectedness is gone. I no longer feel a part of the institution that was my safe place all of my life. 

In much of my life, I have felt like an outlier, a square peg in a world of round holes, a misfit...but I never expected to feel that way in church. And the fact that my daughter was rejected takes things to a whole new level, since her challenges were well known. I don't feel a part of the Catholic Church any more. I'm just going through the motions and hoping that equilibrium will return. Solace and spiritual comfort are gone for me. I guess I'll have to find a way to make my own.  

Rant about email subscriptions

Dear company:

It's not you, it's me. Okay, technically, it's my spouse, but anyway, I have to leave you.  I don't want to, I'd like to change, but you aren't making it possible. You won't adapt, you won't meet me halfway, so I have to walk away.

I'm in email update Hades right now. My husband decided we are going to change web service providers, which is necessitating a change in email address. I've had that email address for a long time, it's tied to my business, it's a part of my communications platform, and shortly, poof, it will be gone. And the transition is becoming a giant pain in the server.

Hey, companies, it's 2013. You have Facebook and Twitter and Linked In and RSS and Pinterest and blogs and e-communications and you want me to subscribe to get all the latest updates and coupons and deals and whatever...so why do you make it so freaking complicated to KEEP doing that?

If I had a dollar for every time the last few days that I have had to unsubscribe and resubscribe rather than just update my email, I could take my family out to dinner, and I'm not talking McDonalds. We're getting into Red Lobster territory, here. Many blogs, companies and other places now have an "update preferences" option on their e-communications. Make it easy for me to stay with you, why don't you? Every time I have unsubscribe and turn around a second later and resubscribe, somewhere, a computer chip cries. It CAN'T be that complicated to add the feature-other companies have managed just fine.

A couple of companies insisted that I couldn't just update, I had to start over with a new profile. I quit those companies. If they are that hinky about an email, what would their return policy or defective merchandise policy be like?  I grudgingly subscribed to one retailer because, although it's beyond me why, my 8 year old daughter adores their over priced, oversexed $50 for a pair of jeans with rips and holes in them clothing, and I was hoping for a coupon or discount once in a while. According to the chirpy little customer service rep at the end of an email, I had to set up a whole new profile to update my email because they "didn't have the functionality to just update."  Seriously? SERIOUSLY?  Nope, I don't think so. Just take me off the list.

I have a quizillion things tied to my current email address. It's a sign on, a communications channel, a way for clients and editors and friends and colleagues to reach me...and I'm trying to remember all of them and update them. I also have listserves and newsletters and blogs and a bunch of other things that I receive email from. I know I won't capture all the changes, but hopefully I'll hit the important ones. I have every loyalty card known to creation...but don't push me.

So, really, it IS you, company. Get with the program, use the freaking technology or I'll move on. Don't make it harder than it has to be to stay in touch with you, because frankly, this whole process is making me cranky and my kid found and disposed of my candy stash and I don't plan on restocking until the kid is back in school.

Rituals

Cross post from The Sandwich Chronicles.

I never thought I would preside over my own mother's burial.

Appropriate

If I had a loonie for every time that word has come out of my mouth in the last couple of months I would be debt free...

To preface things: I like plain clothing. I like well tailored, simple classic pieces that aren't flashy, fancy or too tight. I've never cared a fig for designer labels, mainly because when you have a big bust, designer clothes don't FIT you. Even when I was much thinner, I had hips and thighs and breasts and Designer off-the-rack clothes don't FIT me.

And I don't like to stand out. When you have large breasts, you don't usually have to draw attention to them. More people than I can count have conducted whole conversations to them. Newsflash: they don't talk back.  And confession time:  I was molested when I was 12 or 13. I was fondled on my breasts, and when I slapped the hand away, he said "do you blame me." I was a kid, I was naive and I knew nothing about sexuality etc, and it took me until my mid-20s to put the blame where it belonged. My lasting legacy, however is to cover up.

And to put the cherry on the top, my mother was still telling me what to wear to her funeral on her deathbed, because even at 49, she didn't trust me to dress myself. So I come with issues around clothing.

Enter my 8 year fashionista daughter. Although it's probably my fault for letting her watch the Disney Channel, she wants to look like the teens on the shows she sees. She wants to wear off the shoulder tops, skinny jeans with rips, tops with cutaways, string bikinis and she's never met a bling she didn't like. She wants to wear big hoop earrings like Selena Gomez. Did I mention she's 8...

Clothing manufacturers don't make it easy to dress our little girls as 8 year olds and not mini-tarts. Go into most girls' sections and you will have off the shoulder tops, skinny jeans with rips, tops with cutaways and the like. The skirts are short, the tops are low...what happened to letting our children be children?

I'm trying very hard not to be as dictatorial about clothing as my mother was. That being said, I am simply not comfortable with my daughter dressing like Trailer Trash Barbie. I'm trying to find a middle ground, and we have had conversations for a couple of years about clothing and appropriateness and classy versus trashy. We once sat on a ride at a fall fair and critiqued some of the outfits. To be fair, she asks me (constantly) mommy could I wear that, and I do try to find some middle ground. I'm trying to let her make some of her own choices.

She declared to the whole women's change room yesterday that my clothes were disgusting. She was mad because I wouldn't let her wear a particular top without something under it, and she was lashing out. She still can't wear the top.

But in my heart of hearts, I think she has a point. While I will never be comfortable with cleavage or super tight jeans (Pillsbury dough girl anyone? shudder) maybe I could try a belt once in a while...My mother told me it just made me look fatter and I'm ingrained to just listen. Besides, belts aren't comfortable. I like colour, but solids. I have a couple of prints...in black and white. Maybe I could try something more daring. I have a horror of looking like an ottoman. I'm already shaped like one these days.

 My mother based all of her fashion thinking on what the CBC Newsworld anchors were wearing, who, of course, you only see from the waist up. Although it was one of her best colours, it took a lot of convincing to get my mother to wear bright pink because she didn't think an octagenarian should wear bright pink. While my mom is still exercising her influence from the grave, (when I was dressing for my birthday, I had chosen a lovely grey knit dress. Clear as a bell in my head, I heard "it won't look very nice in pictures, dear." and she was right, so I changed...) she wasn't always right. (sorry mom).

I'm sure my daughter and I can find middle ground, although right now I'm tempted to re-outfit her closet with plain t-shirts and plain jeans to eliminate the fight. She is a strong independent thinker with her own opinions...and if I channel in the right direction, she'll be unstoppable. once she's not grounded any more for being rude to her mother...

Snow Day and a Special Needs Child

SNOW DAY!  When I was a kid, I can remember being glued to the radio on snowy mornings, waiting for the magical words "Schools in the Baldwin-Cartier school board are closed..." and then we'd head out for a play day in the snow. Snow days are still magical days for kids...unless your kid happens to have OCD and Anxiety and things like a change in schedule can throw her off for days.

It's April in Canada. It's been a weird year. We are currently sitting under a severe freezing rain warning, and the school boards have just closed all the schools for the day. While I think it was the safe decision, I'm not looking forward to the reaction when my little girl wakes up and finds out. You see, today was supposed to be a retreat day in preparation for her First Communion on Saturday. With school being closed today, it will be bumped to tomorrow...

Fridays are the Kid's favorite day of the week. Friday means art, hot lunch, STEAM program and Tumblebus. If the retreat is moved to Friday,  none of these things will happen because the Kid will be at the church all day. And that will be enough to set her off for the weekend.

She will worry about missing STEAM and Tumblebus. She will worry about her hot lunch and what will happen to it. She will be upset that she's missing art and STEAM. All of these worries will distract her from the purpose of the retreat and will make for a challenging day for the teachers.

This is a little kid who can be thrown off if a t-shirt ends up in the wrong drawer. This is a little kid who can't eat soup and pudding with the same spoon even if she washes it in between. This is a little girl who can't walk out the door unless all of her winter clothes are on, and who has to put these clothes on in a specific order. Having two entire days disrupted does not bode well for her anxiety level.

Snow days are supposed to stress out the parent, not the kid. It's just another challenge brought on by OCD and Anxiety.

Dear Toronto Blue Jays

Dear Toronto Blue Jays,

Welcome to your new season. With all the activity in the off-season, your fans have high hopes for a return to the successes of the early 1990s.

What you don't know is you have an added advantage this year, because you have an extra angel in the outfield.

My mother, Myrna, was one of your most dedicated and passionate fans. She knew all your stats, all your names, and read the sports page first every day until she got too sick to follow the game any more. She cut out the schedule at the beginning of every season, and watched every game. She worried and fretted about you like you were her own family. When young players with families were traded, she worried and fretted. When you were injured, she worried and fretted, and would call me to tell me you were fine again and playing. When you played badly, she worried and fretted. When you played well, she rejoiced. Did I mention my mom was 86?

Conversations with my mother during baseball season  were peppered with comments like "I don't know what Cito was thinking..." "Jose played well tonight." and an ongoing stream of choice words and commentary for the time that Ricciardi was GM.  I didn't follow baseball, but mom would tell me all about the game anyway. Sometimes, I handed the phone to my husband so she could have a cheerful talk with a like minded soul.

My mom floored her great-nephews with her in-depth knowledge and understanding of the game of baseball.  She could debate the relative merits of the DH rule. She could call a ball and strike better than some umpires, and she knew that RBI and Earned Run Averages didn't matter a fig unless ball connected with bat or glove when it mattered.

We took mom to games in Toronto a few times, but she liked watching the game on television so she could hear the commentary and see the replays. Besides, the stadium music was too loud.

Last year, the skin cancer my mom had been battling started to win. Radiation triggered strokes that caused dementia. My baseball loving mom couldn't remember how to turn on the television, and if I left the game on, she often asked me to turn it off because it was too confusing to follow.

But she still read the sports page...until the very end, my mom read about her Jays.

I know my mom was only one of thousands of fans, but in the last year of her life, when everything was taken from her-her independence, her mind, her health, her dignity, her apartment, her privacy and ultimately, her life, the Toronto Blue Jays was one of the few constants that remained and continued to bring her joy.

My mom and dad were great baseball fans. They  now have seats in the ultimate sky-box, and if there are a couple of odd deflections into foul territory, you can thank your angel in the outfield.

Earrings and Easter Eggs-cross post from the Sandwich Chronicles

Earrings and Easter Eggs.

The Firsts

Cross post from The Sandwich Chronicles.

The Little Things

What I am discovering with my mom's death, is it's not so much the big things that are getting me, it's the little things. The little things stab me in the heart.

My mom's favorite Christmas carol was "Silent Night." I made it as far as "holy night" and then bolted for the coatroom at mass Christmas Eve.

For as long as I can remember, on Christmas Day everything stopped for the Queen's Christmas message. We all sat around the television until the Queen had finished speaking, and then Christmas Day continued as before. This year, I spoke with mom's best friend mid-morning Christmas morning, and she mentioned she had just listened to the Queen's message. When I listened to it later, I broke down. For the first time in my life, I watched it alone.

My mom was a staunch monarchist, and was particularly fond and protective of Prince William. She would have been thrilled to hear there was a baby coming. It was hard not to pick up the phone and talk to her about it.

Hilary Clinton stepped down and John Kerry took over as Secretary of State. That would have merited several long discussions about it. I am a third generation political junkie and one of the last things mom and I did together was watch the US election returns in her room at the nursing home.

The Pope resigned. That would have merited several more long discussions.

I found a perfect dress for my daughter's first Communion at an upscale second hand store. It was new with tags, simple, appropriate and $15. Mom would have been thrilled, all the more so since my daughter loved it on sight.

And the Blue Jays are starting spring training. With the team they have put together and my mom cheering them from heaven, if they don't win the World Series this year, something is seriously wrong.

And when the Dairy Queen opens again next month, there will not be a rite of spring ice cream with mom for the first time in my life.

I miss mom a million ways a day, whether it's finding her handwriting on a note in a box, looking at old pictures or hearing her voice in my daughter's teddy bear message that she recorded. I can handle the big things. The little things hurt.

I Don't Understand

Dear USA
I'm one of your neighbours in Canada. I've been sitting here with tears pouring down my face about the events in Connecticut. I don't know anyone there. I don't know anyone who knows anyone there. That doesn't matter. Children should be safe in their homes and their schools, and little kids shouldn't have to hide in a cupboard so they aren't shot in the Kindergarten class. It is not only the USA who is in shock and grieving-it is the whole world. I hope it comforts you to know that people all over the world are sending love and sympathy your way. We are united by this senseless tragedy.

 I will readily admit my bias. I don't like guns. I don't want to be around guns, I don't want to learn how to shoot a gun, I don't want to own a gun. My uncles and cousins were hunters and there were shotguns at my uncle's farm when I was a child. I've handled an unloaded gun, but only because I worked in Customs and I had to and even then, I passed the task to another officer if I was able to. I've never shot a gun and I don't want to. I don't even like BB guns or paintball guns.

I live in Canada, where you can own a handgun legally but we have permits to carry, permits to convey, permits to own, permits to store and lots of police checks and identification requirements. While the people who want to commit crimes with a handgun still manage to find them, it's more challenging. They can't just walk into Walmart and come out with an assault rifle. In fact, unless you are police or military, you aren't allowed to own automatic or semi-automatic weapons.

I'm trying to understand why your nation is gun crazy. Why would a Kindergarten teacher need 2 hand guns and an assault rifle? Why would ANYONE other than military and law enforcement need an assault rifle? I don't understand. What makes you so afraid that you need to arm yourselves with so much firepower?

I understand that your independence was purchased at a high cost of life. I understand that the fight between North and South was resolved at a high cost of life as well...but those wars were a long time ago. I know that 9-11 made you feel unsafe again, and the world cried with you then, too. But you can put down your guns now. It's okay.

How does having more guns solve anything? People who want to hurt other people will always find a way, but why make it easier? I don't understand this thinking that more guns somehow make you safer. Doesn't it make you feel less safe?  If you truly felt safe, why would you need a gun in the first place? Why don't you feel safe, USA?

How many more innocent people will have to die before you figure out that the "Right to bear arms" is highly overrated these days, even if it's a constitutional right. Look at the historical context of that amendment; you've all grown up since then. Why look how far you've come as a nation.

I don't think I'll ever understand your stance on gun ownership. I just wonder how many more innocent people have to die before you figure out why you feel so unsafe that you need to have hand guns and rifles and shotguns and assault rifles in your homes. I know you won't be able to change overnight, but maybe a good first step is to change a law to prohibit just any random person from owning an assault rifle. I hope you figure it out soon, USA. I'll pray that this horrendous event becomes the catalyst for positive change, and I'll pray that you find a way to feel safe so you can put the guns down. And I'll pray that you take comfort that strangers all over the world deeply care about what happened in Connecticut. My heartfelt, prayerful condolences on your losses.

Cross post from The Sandwich Chronicles

http://lisa-maccoll.blogspot.ca/2012/12/when-its-all-been-said-and-done.html

Anxiety and Hair Bling

My daughter just got a feather and some tinsely bling in her hair. Most of the little girls in her class were sporting some hair bling, and my daughter's received short shift of mommy time lately while I frantically cleared my mother's apartment. Last weekend, my husband went out to play cards, and the Kid and I had girls' night. We went to the mall, she got her hair bling, we looked in the stores, debated which boy in One Direction is cutest. (I've given up pointing out that for me to even have a preference is kind of creepy since I'm old enough to be a mother (or in some parts of the nation, a grandmother) to any of them) We had ice cream. And I thought we had a great evening of girl things.

Until the anxiety started. My daughter has severe anxiety and it touches every aspect of her life. Combined with OCD, if things aren't exactly so in her world, things don't go well. As I was tucking her in to bed a couple of hours after getting the hair bling, the worry line on her forehead appeared.

"Mommy, what if I get the feather wet?"

"Then we'll dry it."

"What if the bling falls out?"

"I watched the lady put them in. I'll just put the bling back in and if it's the feather, keep it and we'll go and get them to put it back in."

"The lady said we had to be careful in the swimming pool or the colour will come out of the feather? What if it gets wet? Will it happen right away?"

"No honey, it won't happen right away. We'll just put your swim cap on, and then rinse it out really quickly after swimming."

"But what if..But what if... The questions went on for another 10 minutes, all variations on the same theme. What if the cat tried to get the feather? What if the bling fell out and she didn't notice it? What if only half the feather fell out...I finally calmed her down by thinking up silly ways the feather could fall out-what if a moose snuck in the door and gave her a moose kiss and slimed her feather? What if daddy wanted to steal her feather? She went off to sleep thinking up outrageous ways to lose the feather and what we would do.

A couple of days later, one of the tinsel did fall out, and I replaced it in her hair in under 2 minutes. Her anxiety is less now, especially since the pink feather survived swimming lessons unscathed and unfaded.

What started out as an innocent girly girl thing turned into an anxiety producing event. It's easy to minimize the fears until you realize that in the Kid's mind, they aren't minimal at all. If she gets this worked up over a couple of strands of tinsel and a feather, what about the big stuff like what high school to go to, what career to choose or who to date? It made me regret the hair bling, which then made me angry at this mental challenge my innocent little daughter will deal with the rest of her life. I'll have to adapt, and then teach her how to deal with it. Humour and hugs will help. And maybe some backup hair bling...

Finding my Brave at the CNE

I love the CNE. I love the sights, the sounds, the Belgian strawberry waffle with ice cream and strawberries-I love to people watch, to snoop in the buildings, watch silly people scare themselves witless on rides while I sit and watch. I love the CNE.

When I lived in Toronto, I would take myself down to the fair in town every year. I hopped the King streetcar and got off at the Dufferin Gate. I'd spend the day wandering the fairgrounds and I would visit the Arts and Crafts building and the international pavilion, indulge in my strawberry waffle, visit the Hershey booth, the Billy Bee Honey booth and the Tetley tea booth, get my tarot cards read by a grizzled old gypsy in the horse building, pet a couple of velvety horse noses and head for home happy and broke. When I started dating my husband, I introduced him to my CNE ritual, and we've extended it to our daughter.

The first year we took the Kid to the CNE, she was around 18 months old. We stayed until the lights came on on the midway and she was hooked. Her head swivelled so fast from left to right I was afraid of whiplash. "Oh, pretty. oh pretty..." was all she kept saying. When she was little, rides were easy. Now that she's older, fearless and taller, going to the CNE or any midway requires the negotiation skills of a UN envoy. She loves rides. I don't.

I was the person who held the bags and purses at Canada's Wonderland while everyone else hit the roller coasters. I was the person who stayed in the lobby of the Empire State Building when everyone else rode to to the top. I used to be able to do any ride that spins, as long as it stays relatively on the ground. I don't do roller coasters, I don't do heights, and I don't do 3-D or IMAX.  After a couple of sessions of whiplash, I can no longer do spinny rides too well. My husband doesn't do spin, but doesn't mind heights or roller coasters. We have a kid who loves rides. Trade offs and negotiating are now a huge part of our day and I have been known to exercise the Mom Veto on rides that will take 20 years off my life if my kid goes on them. Drop Zone at Marineland received the "over my dead, bleeding body" Mom Veto.

Imagine my Kid's surprise and delight, then, when I agreed to take her on the Polar Express. I used to LOVE the Polar Express, or Music Express or any other variation of the ride where you sit and go backwards in a hilly circle while they play music that muffles the screams. "Do you want to go faster?" "YES" "Do you want to go FASTER?" "YES"... I agreed to take my kid on the ride. "Really, mommy? REALLY We can go on the ride? REALLY? Let's GO!"

A car accident in 2002 resulted in a misdiagnosed cracked hip and lower leg. I walked on it for months before a bone scan revealed the then-healed cracks. It's left me with osteo-arthritis in my hip that causes some mobility challenges. I'm also significantly heavier than previous years. But my kid was already running up the ramp to find a seat in a ride I wasn't sure how I was going to get into. Onward.

The ride started and I tried my best not to squish my kid as centrifuge tried to send me to the other side of the cart. We both laughed our heads off on the ride and it was just as I remembered. I felt a bit queasy, but it was manageable. The music really hadn't changed much in 30 years. It was pulsing and loud and mercifully, over quickly.

When the ride stopped, I was leaning backwards low to the ground and my knees were higher than my head. And I was stuck. I couldn't slide forward enough to use my good leg to stand up. I couldn't swivel around to use both legs to stand, and I couldn't stand from the angle I was sitting in because of my gimpy hip and my weight. I was stuck. I tried various combinations to disembark before flagging down one of the buff young carnies, swallowing my pride and asking for help. He grabbed my outstretched hand, heaved me out and I waddled off the ride, my dignity cowering behind me, tail between her legs.

I vetoed a second trip on the ride, but the Kid was still happy. Mommy had kept her promise and took her on the Polar Express. I soothed my dignity with a deluxe strawberry waffle with chocolate, ice cream AND whipped cream. And we all went home happy and broke.

Cross Post from the Sandwich Chronicles

I haven't forgotten you, I've just been over at the other blog.
See
The Stuff that Memories are Made of

I'll be back soon, I promise.

Cross post from the Sandwich Chronicles

I'm a blogging machine today...here's my post on The Sandwich Chronicles.

The Wisdom of Solomon.

On Camping

My husband and daughter tried camping in the backyard last night in a tent. A number of her school chums have campers, so camping was on my kid's wish list since last summer. We did try to  pitch the tent one day last year, and the tent pole broke in the process, aborting that attempt. New year, new tent, my husband was intent on keeping his promise this year.

The Kid was practically levitating with excitement. She'd planned which stuffies were coming camping, which blanket she was bringing, which pyjamas she was going to wear...she was dancing all over the deck, unable to sit still as we tried to put up a tent.

We have both camped before. My husband went camping with  his close friends a few years ago, and his friends were a bit concerned when they saw the amount of stuff Mr. Overpack was bringing. I think they were afraid I'd actually thrown him out and the camping trip was a front. I haven't camped since I was a young teenager and spent a couple of nights in my aunt and uncle's camper. I haven't camped in a tent since "Rock me Gently" and "Rock the Boat" were at the top of the charts. (oh, go and google, I'll wait.) A week at Girl Guide camp finished my tent camping days for good. Not sure if it was the cow that looked in through the flap someone forgot to secure or the chipmunk that ran across my face in the early morning, but I was done with the tent camping thing after that experience.

I'm just not an outdoors person. I'm not a gardener. It's a necessity, not an enjoyment.  I spent 6 months in physiotherapy after an afternoon of weeding. I'm not making this up. I screwed my shoulder so badly it took 6 months of physio to fix it. I'm a container gardener. Were it not for the worms, toads, wasps, bees, hornets, mosquitoes and dirt, I'd probably quite enjoy actual gardening.

When the idea of camping first came up, I was clear in my opinion. Have fun, you two. Mommy doesn't do camp, and mommy certainly doesn't do tent. The Kid is trying to figure out the boundaries for mommy to camp, and so far she has received a confirmation that I would, in fact, camp in a Winnebago.(Since we currently do not own stock in oil companies, and couldn't afford the gas for that sucker, it's a safe assertion on my part.)  I would consider a camper, but only if it has indoor plumbing.  My personal purgatory will see me stuck in a plain where I have to walk in the dark with a flashlight to use the bathroom at night. It will no doubt also include a shower I could only access a couple of times a week. I need my daily shower. It has to have a real bed. Air mattress and sleeping bag? uh...no.

The tent went up, the air mattresses went in, and the Kid then spent 30 minutes arranging everything to her satisfaction. OCD means even in a tent things must be in a certain place.  She had snacks (dunkaroos, juice box and granola bars) She had her slippers. She had her blanket. She had her bears. Time for bed. She and hubby crawled into the tent and I went in the house and locked the doors. I could hear her talking a blue streak, and the fact that there were fireworks in the neighbourhood last night didn't help the process of sleep. I was just getting ready to call it a night when a stream of curses caused me to look out the window. The tent was down. Experienced outdoor people that my husband and I are, we hadn't tightened something or fastened something, and the pop-up tent...didn't.

After a few minutes of debate and a few tears (from the Kid and blinked back from me since my night to myself was gone) they abandoned the project and came back inside. It took until 1am for the Kid to unwind and fall asleep.

Still, the promise was at least partially kept. The Kid spent a few hours in the tent (although the magic was wearing thin because there's not much to DO in a tent. I think her friends have been blowing smoke up her butt about the glamours of camping. That, or they never had to sit in the rain and NOT touch the sides of the tent.) and my husband kept his word. Best of all, I had the house and the remote to myself. Wins all around.