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.
Monday, December 17, 2012
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Thursday, October 18, 2012
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...
Monday, October 15, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
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.
See
The Stuff that Memories are Made of
I'll be back soon, I promise.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
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.
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.
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