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GRADUATION DAY

It’s June, and therefore, for those with children of almost any school age, it’s Graduation Season.

Whether from pre-school to elementary, middle to high school, or university and beyond we have all been told, repeatedly, that it is a BIG DEAL. Growing up, wasn’t it just high school that was a big deal? Prom, corsage, limo? And university – duh – but pre?? Like the trophies and the medals – it’s graduation for everyone!

For my junior high “graduation” – our grade performed a musical version of the creation story.  I was one of 3 angels who wore flapper-style fringed dresses and sang a doo-wop song about being in Heaven. No joke. Another friend was the MC. And those were good parts. Some kids had to be “dancers” – in the dark, under black lights with white gloves doing jazz hands.

We’ve come a long way. In some ways.

When my eldest “graduated” from nursery it was kind of cute. Basically it was a photo-op situation where the parents (mostly moms) gushed about how fast time was flying. Some were saddened by it. I was relieved.

Then there was the big switch from pre-school/early years to Grade 1. For my kids, it wasn’t all that different. They went from an all-day Senior Kindergarten play-based classroom to an-day Grade One “big boy” class. Photos were, of course, adorable but the kids’ situation didn’t change all that much.

For the Elementary to Middle School jump, the kids (and parents) had an orientation so we could all understand how it would work. It felt scary. It felt serious.  Ultimately, for our family, it was still the same kids and the same school, but it was indeed different. Different teachers teaching different classes in different rooms. For a kid who didn’t like to sit in one place, it was a godsend. For one who thought a particular teacher hated him, it was a miracle. And the best part? They had lockers.

Lockers. Some of the girls had mini carpets and teeny tiny chandeliers in their lockers. The boys had magnets and shelves…for magnets. A kid with a locker was a Big Kid. Or so it seemed to the children in grade 6. To those finishing Grade 8, the once mighty locker became just another place to put their stuff.

At about halfway through the first term of Grade 8, talk of “Grad” began. I didn’t get it. At all. Graduation from Grade 8 – for me – was not “Grad”. “Real” graduation was from high school. Or university. Suddenly I found myself discussing Prom, breakfasts, pre-parties, post-parties. The kids were barely involved. There was a parent party, a parent poem, a photo collage made by – of course – the parents for their young graduates. Decor, menus, venues – the emails were flying. Even though I was on the planning committee, I felt like quite an imposter – I didn’t buy in. Not to any of it.

And now as the big day approaches, I cannot help but think about what it really means for my boy to be heading off to high school in September. He’s excited to be going to school with all of his friends even though, as I like to tell him (frequently), he probably hasn’t even met his friends yet! Up to now, it’s been all-childhood, all the time. I know his pals, their parents, his teachers.  Now, he’s entering his own phase. New friends. New experiences that have absolutely nothing to do with us. We won’t really know where he is, what he’s doing, or with whom. I’m well aware that it’s been my job to get him to this place, and I can only hope that he makes the right choices. I have total confidence in this young person but still – it terrifies me.

I am thrilled and scared. Happy and devastated. I know what I was up to in high school. I both laugh and cringe when I think about it. When I look at this boy, with whom I have such a special relationship, and I picture him leaving me out of his high school life – because that is exactly what he is supposed to do – I get teary. Not too many teenagers are coming home to discuss what’s going on with their mommies. Some do, sometimes, but not a lot. While my son and I are truly sympatico, I am not his best friend, nor is he mine. I don’t expect him to tell me everything, and as he enters these totally impactful high school years I’ll be happy if/when he tells me anything! This is his time. He’ll be making new memories and really carving out he who is. All exciting stuff, invigorating and, hopefully, not too traumatizing.

So much of who we become is etched upon us in high school. The music we’re into. The friends we find. The mistakes we make. High school is a place of freedom and excitement, but also a place where it can be so hard to figure out who we are. We get boxed in. Left out. Egged on. Some part of us never leaves high school.

And now that’s where he’s heading.

So as we enter his final week of middle school, with the parties and the ceremonies and the goodbyes, I know that it is “only grade 8”. And that in 4 short years when he (hopefully!) graduates from high school I will think back to this with fondness and smiles.

But for today I will wish my young graduate the fortitude to make the right decisions. To be his own person.  To stay kind, funny, compassionate and smart. There will be wounds in the teenage world of social warfare, and challenges he’ll think he can never possibly surpass. Life will be the best. And the worst. And we will be there for him whether he wants us or not.

And whether we want to or not, we will set him free and watch him fly…..

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June 19, 2017   5 Comments

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The Golden Moment

January 1, 2002. D and I walk out of the Chinese Restaurant downtown. It’s freezing. He looks at me, his eyes smiling…

And thus the anecdotal Golden Moment begins…

I could write the script of my man’s marriage proposal word for word. It’s so etched in my brain now that I sometimes wonder if it happened as I remember it, or if I made up some of the lines. I could make a highlight reel of my wedding day. And night.And the fantastic once-in-a-lifetime honeymoon that followed. I could provide a play-by-play of the births of each of my three sons: the one that was induced, the one that came sailing out, the one that waited until after the needle but before the epidural could kick in to arrive. Not just Golden, these moments were Platinum, true life-changers in every sense of the word.

Don’t get me wrong, 100% pure gold they were not. Throw a few lumps of coal into these experiences to really make them true to life. That whole “best of times, worst of times” speech couldn’t be more true or appropriate if I made it up myself. Which I did not. Maybe that would’ve been my Golden Moment.

And yet, as life-changing as they were, to relive the dawning of my life as a wife and mother seems so clichéd…

Breaking up with a live-in lover after 5 years of unhealthy obsessions? That was a Golden Moment. Reaching my goal at Weight Watchers (unrelated to the intense weight loss after said break-up)? Another Goldie. Scuba diving at night – at night!? Blindingly gold. Even reading a eulogy for my beloved Grandmother was a Golden Moment for me, twisted as that might sound.

Then there are the times that are more gold-plated. The ones I look back on and smile, sometimes smugly. My first titled job in film and my name in Variety? 18 karat. Returning to the Kibbutz 6 weeks after bidding my temp-o-life there Shalom forever? Zahav. Watching Bono and The Edge perform in front of 100 people while seated in the third row? Gold-Record Gold.

For me, the Golden Moments aren’t what we see in coffee commercials. At least none of my moments are. Rather, they’re the forks in the road. Whether less travelled or well-trod, they’re the paths taken that lead us in totally different directions. Choose left and you’re an Academy Award-winning screenwriter, with a ton of air-miles and no personal life. Choose right and you’ve got a loving family, a cottage business and ONLY a personal life. For better and for worse. Those forks in the roads are the life-changers. The Golden Moments. THE moments. Full stop. And let’s face it, many of them are far more tarnished than they are Golden.

I guess I needed to rattle off the Golden Oldies’ Greatest Hits because a side of me wonders if those were the good old days. Or maybe throwing down these glorious slices of life onto the page plays into my suspicions that I’m still waiting for the Big One. Or worse: what if the Golden Moment has already come and gone?

And what if I missed it?!

Can you imagine? What if, while waiting for my time to shine, for that stand-out moment that would change my life – and possibly the world – for all eternity, I blinked? Would the moment be gone forever? Would I miss my chance to be something? Or someone? Someone other than who I am?

I guess what it comes down to is that life is full of so many Moments – golden, bronzed, and tarnished to shit. And you never know which are the real life changers until after they happen. At least I don’t. Retrospect is a beautiful thing. Weddings, divorces, births, and deaths. Travels, friendships, books and films. Even the blackest of moments become golden when they’re over. Because they’re over. And we’ve made it through. The beauty of life is the alchemy that helps keep us going. Turning crap into gold and hoping it sticks. Maybe it’s coming to this realization that makes up my Golden Moment. Or maybe it’s all just Fool’s Gold.

Posted by Mother of all Mavens at 6:43 PM

4 comments:

Anonymous said…

ok – fully publishable. send it to the globe – it’s great!!!

8:13 PM

Anonymous said…

You are wise! You are smart and you ARE golden!
Loved this…….

10:29 PM

Anonymous said…

This Blog is so wonderful , smart and your mind is so keen .
your introspection is a marvel
your words come out with such grace and tenderness.

10:12 AM

Anonymous said…

I found this site. And i want to thank you for your work. You have done really very good site. Great work, great site! Thank you!

Sorry for offtopic

November 4, 2009   No Comments

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Hola Punta Cana

Forgive me readers, it’s been a while. One filled with ups, downs and – oddly – airline travel. That’s right, I’ve been on vacation!

Remember back at school you’d have to write essays about your summer vacation?

Anyone? Anyone? No? (Me neither. Once you were back, you were back. Party’s over) And yet, they always seem to in movies. So, without further ado, may I present:

Ten Things I Learned on my Winter Vacation. (Part I.)

1. I learned that Charter Flights blow. Bite. Suck. And not in a good way, pervs.
I always kind of knew this, but when travelling with small children, beware the cheap ‘n cheerful charter. Or beware of other people’s children (ie. mine) who, after being in transit for nearly 12 hours due to delays on their 4-hour flight might be somewhat, erm, antsy. They might lose interest in the massive bag of books, toys and personal DVDs. They might figure out how to open the tray table. And close it. And open it. And close it. And, well, you get the picture. They might be soothed by massive lollipops but, as everyone knows, the ramifications of the sugar highs can be brutal.

2. I learned that said Charters, despite having a planeload of cranky (irate) passengers, think that by giving out crappy earphones and cheap credit vouchers, all will be OK. It won’t. Not after handing out $15 “lunch vouchers” to be spent at night when all the restaurants close. Nor by keeping the overhead lights on during the all-night flight. Nor by pushing the bloody duty-free after we all spent countless hours in the airport browsing… in duty-free shops. Nor by handing out measly $100 credit vuchers for future travel on the same airine – non-transferable to boot. Oh – and another newsflash – staffing the plane with rude teenagers doesn’t help either. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m sure they were tired too – but they were being paid time-and-a-half for their trouble. We certainly weren’t.

DEEP BREATH……

3. I learned that sometimes weather reports calling for daily showers in the Carribbean can be correct. Even if you surf every single travel site looking for good news. When they say torrential, they mean it.

3a. Thankfully, I also learned that those daily showers only last for 10 minutes.
3b. But can strike at any time, any place.
3c. But the really deep puddles they leave behind can be almost as fun as a swimming pool. For a few minutes at least.

4. I learned that the best ways to entertain your kids is by enlisting other people’s kids. Preferably older ones. And if they have accents, even better – endless amusement for everyone.

5. I learned that is really is possible to drown in a mater of minutes, in less than a foot of water. NOT THAT ANYONE DID (god forbid poo poo poo). But when you watch your 2 year old get pushed into a pool, leap out of your seat, jump into the water to find him floating motionless on the top step of a mini pool and fish him out, hysterical – well, let’s just say you have a new appreciation for vigilance, paranoia, and landsports.

6. You learn to navigate buffets. Somehow, after walking through day after day and complaining about the cuisine, you manage to fill up your plate. And refill it. And maybe add a little bit more. And then you suck it back. Day after day. And pound after pound.

7. You learn that bulky strollers are RV’s. And you love them. Portable beds, baggage handlers, detention centers – these babies really can do it all, not to mention how well they clear traffic. Think big, act big and everyone’s outta your space.

8. You learn that your children are vampires-in-reverse. By day, nothing beats the joy you feel as your angels frolic by the seaside. You’re all children again, building sandcastles, and playing in the pool. How romantic it all seems: long walks on the beach holding hands, sharing fruity drinks under the palms, posing for family snapshots…Even cheesy organized drinking competitions seem sweet when you watch ’em with your little ones. It’s all so wonderful, everyone is deliriously happy, even without their regular naps and routines. Bliss by day…

And then…

The sun sets. And you learn about a new kid in town. Sprung from your loins. Sharing your room. Darkness falls. The moon rises. And with it – El Diablo. Or, even worse, Los Diablos: your very own flesh and blood who, quick to turn on you, remind you of everything you needed a vacation from: them!!!

9. I learned about how quickly we forget. No sooner had we touched down after another, erm, antsy, flight than we started dreaming up the next family vacation. We looked at pictures, reminiscing about the good times….the daytimes…

10. I learned that some of us don’t really forget. Sure, for entertainment purposes I’ve tended to accentuate the negative – that’s what creative license is all about. Let’s face it, no one wants to read about perfect getaways and happy endings. We’re all ambulance chasers, looking for the dirty bits, riveted by the nightmares, thanking the universe or god or whoever that those problems are someone else’s, and that we get to hear all about them…. Fact is, it was a fantastic trip – angels and devils notwithstanding. A family love-in. OK, once we were home for a day or so it was back to normal.

But not completely. For within days of returning from our family holiday, I was off on a trip on my own. And I’ve learned that even sitting alone at a friend’s desk, blogging and reliving certain funny-from-far moments, can be a real vacation.

3 comments:

Anonymous said…
AAAAAAAAmen!

Laughed out loud!

Sitting anywhere alone is a vacation! A vacation for the brain!!!!!!

Thanx for the humour!

Love, jj

10:53 AM

Anonymous said…

LOL I love your blog ! so entertaining my vacation consist of me my laptop and portable beds !

January 21, 2008   No Comments

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If Ever We Meet Again

Reunited, and it feels so good…. Or does it?

Reunion season is upon us. And being invited to reunions can only mean one thing: I must be getting old.

Who knew? Certainly not me.

But in the last few months I’ve been invited to two camp reunions, one family reunion, and there’s been talk of a reunion from an organized trip I went on 20 years ago. Mind you, I was the one doing the talking, so maybe it doesn’t count. Reunion fever is catchy – makes you start thinking about all the other reunions you could – or would – go to. Public school? Perhaps. Junior high? For sure. High school? Hmmmm… which one? University? Definitely…maybe. Grad school? No chance, Lance. So many reunions, so little time…

The family reunion was an interesting one. Oohing and aahing over the latest family members (babies, spouses, pets); trying to create new family memories by recreating memories of yesteryear (egg toss, races, games); reminiscing about people who couldn’t be there (travel, divorce, death); and of course a lot of food. A lot. It was a bittersweet day, a day of reconnection and marvelling that these people who live such different lives from yours are you relatives, your family. And you could really feel it. Everyone left with shiny happy smiles and wondered if and if and when we’d do it again.

Well, apparently, we’re doing it on an annual basis now. Which, to me, kind of rubs off some of the magic of, say, an every-five-year shin dig. Or ten. Then it becomes more like a holiday or something – everyone gathering every year, shooting the same old shit. But we’ll see what happens. More often than not everyone gets carried away with the reunion fever, but as they settle back into their own lives, it tends to subside. I hope.

The camp reunions were an entirely different kettle of fishsticks.

I actually only made it to one of them. Previous engagements aside, I felt like too much of an imposter to go to the first one. I’d only gone to this camp for a single summer. So it just didn’t feel like my camp, y’know? And that single summer happened to be one of the worst of my life, so going to the reunion was pretty much off the cards from the start. But a handful of friends were the organizers, and it did sound like fun, so I was tempted. Just not tempted enough. Revisit the time I consider the peak of The Dark Year? Erm, no thanks.

The other one, however, was for my camp. So I had to go. Or did I? Most people go to reunions to see old friends. I, however, was still friends with most of them. Or they go to see old flames. Hello?! Have you seen the haircuts we sported in the early 80’s? Combined with being 14, it simply wasn’t a pretty time. So not a lot of luck there. But I knew I’d regret not going, so I twisted some friends’ arms, and off we went.

It was packed. For the most part I hung out with the posse I went with. It was a 50 year reunion, so we didn’t feel ancient at all. Au contraire. And there were lots of friends and faces we hadn’t seen since forever. Of course there were some awkward moments too. You know, the kind where you try to subtly read a person’s nametag as they hug you and gush and you haven’t a clue? And, even worse, the kind where you bump into someone you thought you’d been really tight with and they can’t remember your name. Apparently that’s quite devastating…

I’ve recapped since the big night and everyone had a wonderful time. Especially the folks who were a couple years older than my gang. I think our year must’ve been an odd one. Or a nomadic one. Or the kind filled with those too-cool-for-school to show up. ‘Cuz we were somewhat under-represented, in person and in pictures. Where the hell were these people? More importantly, who the hell were they?

Guess we’ll have to wait for the next reunion to find out.

1 comments:

Anonymous said…

My twisted arm is fine and I’m glad I went. I have many theories as to why our age group was under- represented. There’s a larger paper in the workings there with major social implications about coming of age in the decade of greed. Too heavy for your blog?

May 15, 2007   No Comments

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Oops I Did It Again

I feel like a terrible mother. In recent days I have caused my child pain. Not you-don’t-get-to-watch-Dora pain. Nor was it too-much-hummous-you’re-paying-later pain. I caused my child pure, preventable pain. And I feel terrible.
The first strike was on Saturday. I went to securely fasten my 10-month old into his stroller and his shirt had ridden up and…..I caught his skin in the buckle. (insert collective cringe here) He went silent, then looked at me and burst into tears. It even left a mark. It kind of looked like a hickey, which isn’t something you want to see on your baby’s tummy.
The next strike was worse. Different day but, alas, same baby. He was on his change table (yup, this is going that way). I had my hand on his stomach – probably on the spot I had disfigured the day before. I bent over to toss out a diaper and I picked up my hand for one split second. And in that one split second, my babe was airborne. I watched him tumble. Down down down. I tried to grab him but only managed to scoop him up the second he landed. Too little, too late. Once again, we shared the moment of silence followed by crazy waterworks.
Luckily his memory isn’t as good as mine and he’s over it. But I of course am mortified. Not only because I caused my child pain, but because these little nasties happened on my watch!!!
It was the same with my first. Fall over and slam head into wooden box (on my watch)? Check. Roll right off the bed (on my watch)? Check. Fall down the babyproofed stairs (on my watch)? Check. The irony is not lost on my husband. Obviously my man would sooner cut off one of his limbs than hurt his children, but he’s somewhat amused by the fact that all these accidents happen – yep, on my watch.
I have gates and latches and locks. I’m peanut-free. I hover – in a good way. I’m not completely insane about the whole thing – babyproofing, feeding or whatever safety issue turns your crank. I’m definitely cautious, careful and common-sensical. Or so I thought. But it seems my own clutzy tendencies don’t end with ass-over-tit tumbles, wipe-outs on sidewalks or bloody falls up stairs. (Yeah bloody. In every sense of the word) . I’m passing this shit on to my kids.
If my man was the one who accidentally screwed up – and left marks no less – he’d rue the day. The guilt may only last a few minutes but he’d be tortured for weeks. Possibly longer. Yep, I’d never let him forget it. My child would probably grow up knowing the one about his dad buckling his belly. But luckily, I think my guy’s memory is even shorter than my kids’. Chalk it up to having a lot on his plate. Or maybe just having a life.
I console myself with the fact that I can only do my best. And that one day we’ll look back and laugh. And of course that no one would even know about these…slips…had I not opened my big yap. Britney – I feel your pain sister. At least my fuck ups happen off camera.
So far.

4 comments:

Anonymous said…

too much, I was thinking you were Britney and then you put it in your blog.

5:35 PM

smithcutler said…

welcome to the world of “normal person”
especially for busy people…. even bloggers!
you are brave to talk and write about it!! ask your readers to share their mishaps with you….. not many will admit …..or maybe they won’t remember them! we all keep moving.

7:40 AM

Anonymous said…

I know exactly what you mean. Mine rolled off the bed when he was about 7 months. It was like it happened in slow motion. He was fine after a 3 minute cry. Took me a few hours to get over it (I still shake my head at the memory of it). Luckily my husband wasn’t there to witness my negligence. One bonus (if there can be a bonus to letting your kid fall), is that the same slip ups don’t happen twice. Different slips yes, but you can bet I never left him alone on the bed again just because he really didn’t move. Murphy’s Law: Your child will have their first full roll over the minute you leave them unattended on a raised surface. Thanks for sharing.

4:50 PM

Anonymous said…

Loved the Brit shout out. Nice ending.

-Litha (I know I clicked anonymous but the use of my alias sort of honors that, right?)

June 27, 2006   No Comments

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Mother’s Day – But For Real

Last night I went to one helluva raucous party. People got tanked. Glasses were broken. The decibel level rose waaaay higher than anyone would’ve thought. I even scored a phone number (this girl’s still got it).
Funny thing is, it was all chicks. Even crazier – it was all moms and daughters.

Who would’ve thought that 48 hours after Mother’s Day, 7 sets of moms and their girlies would get together for a big group hug of an evening – and have a blast? Not me, that’s for sure.

When I first heard of the plan, I feigned excitement. My mother was delirious- over the moon with excitement, as I’m sure all the moms were. But as one of the daughters, I thought it would be some kind of pseudo-civilized, non-wedding shower sort o’ thang, a real eye-roller. To top it off, I learned that my own mother, the queen of the mom/daughter love affair, the biggest promoter of parent-offspring bonding EVER, the Maharaja of mothers would not be there. She was devastated. I thought for sure we were doomed… for a night of dud-dom.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The food? Spectacular. The drinks? Fully flowing – as were the convos. People were chatting – and not just to their friends, but their friends’ mothers. And their mother’s friends. We suppposed grown up, sophisticated ladies soon turned into a noisy, rowdy crew. We came, we bonded, we conquered. We ate, we drank and we were all really, really, merry. We even have the photographic evidence to prove it.

I also learned a lot: that Neopolitan cake is not just for Bar Mitzvahs. That butts are the new boobs. That everybody colours their hair. That no one (other than yours truly) watches American Idol. That such a thing as a made-for-ice-cream spoon exists (they’re called ice cream spoons, go figure. That we all lie to our kids – white lies – to protect them. Or keep them from shrieking or doing drugs or whatever undesirable behaviour we wish to curb. That the whole strength from adversity thing isn’t just a pile of shit. It’s true! And mostly I learned that, like it or not, the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. Whether we like it or not.

Amid the mother/daughter dates, I was the only one flying solo. And each one of the lovely ladies who came to the dinner had some story, some anecdote, something special to say about my mother. And I couldn’t have been prouder. Or missed her more. When I got home, all I wanted to do was call her, to rehash, discuss and laugh. Yup, I was one of those nearby apples. Closer to the tree than I’d ever imagined. But hey – aren’t we all?!

1 comments:

Anonymous said…
I am smiling at your take on the evening. I think we all would agree with your discription… and I am sure we all missed your mother as much as you did! One of those “good apples” you are!
Perhaps we could think of having another one after the summer or before winter sets in! It was really an upper!!!! I would be thrilled to host it! I will start collecting glasses and “Hooch” as soon as I press the send button! guess who?
xxoo

May 17, 2006   No Comments

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Mother’s Day

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone…

And not a minute too soon. Is it just me? Or is this Hallmark holiday kinda tense? What to make, what to buy, where to go… It’s a day-long food fest, gift swap and family fun fair.

My god, it’s the new Christmas!

Think about it: Easter passes and suddenly the retail motifs change from pale yellows and blues to pinks. The ads start, the florists stress and families start discussing – lunch or brunch? Dinner: in or out? Who brings what? Whose house holds everyone? Can we book tables for 20 people? Can we mix it up a little and do a one-stop shop of all the mothers? What if it rains? Blah blah blah.

Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for celebrating motherhood. I am a mother, and I have a mother. I also have a couple of grandmothers and a mother-in-law. Plus there’s a common-law-stepmother. That’s a motherload if there ever was one – a load far too great for just one day of celebration.

I say have Mother’s Week. Like Reading Week, or Spring Break, but for moms. That way, the mommies really can have it all: time with their kids, time with their parents, and time by themselves. Apparently that’s what most moms really want – time alone. I read it in the paper so it must be true. Yet my mother told me Mother’s Day is more important to her than her birthday. So I guess she’d rather not be alone. And my mother-in-law was thrilled to hang out with the family all together. Grandmothers and great-grandmothers probably spend enough time on their own to add Mother’s Day to the mix – that’s just depressing. But if you devote a whole week to us, imagine: Sunday brunch with your kids, Monday off, Tuesday dinner with the in-laws, Wednesday lunch with your own mother, Thursday out with your friends, Friday….well, you get the picture.

Personally, I’m not so fussed about Mother’s Day. But that could be because it falls in May – the very same month as my birthday and anniversary. Hurray for May! Sure Mother’s day has its perks – my mom actually gives me a gift – she says that it’s because of me that she’s a mother. Who could argue with that? And my husband made a huge fuss on behalf of himself and our kids. That’s not so bad either. Sure my diet went up in smoke the minute the BBQ was lit. And I totally fell off the wagon when the cupcakes came out. But they were pretty damn good. In fact, maybe Mother’s Day wasn’t so bad. See? It should be a week. At least!

This morning I was up changing diapers and making breakfast. Cleaning it up too. Stressing about (lack of) work. Organizing my kids; their plans and mine. Nope, it’s no holiday. If Mother’s Day is the new Christmas, then surely today is Boxing Day. A day off, spent eating leftovers and going shopping – and not just for groceries.

Sure. Maybe next year…

3 comments:

Anonymous said…

YOU ARE ONE SMART COOKIE.. SO SO TRUE

5:59 PM

Anonymous said…

HOW CLEVER .. SOME PEOPLE LOVE MOTHERS DAY.. WHAT MAKES A GREAT MOTHERS DAY.. I KNOW

6:00 PM

Anonymous said…

As a mother, I think Mother’s Day is a scam. What about just giving your parents a break every once in a while day! Why just one day?There is so much pressure throughout the year – why give everyone more pressure for a fabricated hallmark day. People should take the time to be good to their parents throughout the year. Take them for dinner, a present, whatever. This set day is KILLING me – I never enjoy it. I even had a huge fight this year about it. To think my kids will be dreading this day that supposedly honours me is too brutal for words. I told my husband that I set them free, but they better be really nice to me during the year. And yes, my birthday is in May too.

May 15, 2006   No Comments

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Bat Boy

Aaaah, childhood. First steps, first words, first teeth…
When those first teeth appear it’s a relief for everyone – that’s why my angel baby has become the devil. That explains the runny nose/rash/fever and combo platter that medically has nothing to do with teething yet coincidentally always accompanies the cutting of new teeth. And that’s for sure the explanation for the drool fest. We often ask about other babies’ teeth to confirm that our toothless wonders aren’t the only freaks in town. Or, if we’re breastfeeding, to commiserate. Most babes follow the same pattern – a couple bottom teeth, followed by the top two and then, well, who really notices? It’s all about the initial front teeth. And then suddenly the gaps are filled, the bites are real and they’re poppin’ cheerios like nobody’s business.

But something different happened at our house.

Our child grew fangs.

That’s right, fangs. At 6 months, he got his first teeth – two on the bottom. A week later they were bracketed by two more. No top teeth in sight. But still – they were obviously en route. Then he went through hell. Fever. Drool. Rash. Drool. Pain. Drool. More pain. More drool. And then one morning, I spotted them. Full on fangs. Who ever heard of such a thing? Fangs first? I had a nine month old Dracula. A Draculito.

A couple of days passed, and I became obsessed with these little teeth (and lack of more). I’d look at my laughing Bat Boy and think it’s hilarious. I snap pictures, as proof, but the fangs never come out. Maybe he really is a vampire. He’s up at night. Sometimes. And he doesn’t like the sun… We have no crosses to hold up, but he does get a real charge out of his own reflection, so it’s more likely he’s a werewolf. Or maybe he’s just a bit of an oddity. I’m sure the other teeth are coming, but for now, it’s all about those fangs. I show them to everybody. I am constantly trying to make him smile – not because it’s fun for him, but because I want others to see these crazy canines. It’s like the anti-competition: your child walks and talks? Mine has fangs!

We went to see the doctor the other day, nothing dental-related. She noticed his teeth and laughed. It seems I’m not the only mother-of-fang in town. Two of her kids had fangs first too. Dammit. We’re not as special as we thought. See? Try as you might, it’s hard not to compare and contrast your kids with everybody else’s.

They don’t last long, these days of early childhood. Or fangdom. I just spotted a top tooth making it’s way south. Harumph.

May 8, 2006   No Comments

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