Ain't that a kick in the head

Middle Child and Baby Boy were by the gate at the elementary school, waiting for Daughter to be picked up.

One of the special needs children at the school, a Grade 7 boy with Down's Syndrome, wanted to close the gate and pushed Middle Child off. My kid crouches to whisper "Let's run away" to his little brother and Grade 7 goes to kick Middle Child. Instead, his running shoe meets with Baby Boy's right cheekbone, sending my little duffer flying backward. The bigger kid runs away and now Baby Boy has a lovely scrape and bruise.

I informed the head of the educational assistance program, who would work with this kid, of what transpired. Meanwhile, another parent and a bunch of kid witnesses ran in to tell the principal.

I don't expect anything to come of this. I mean, how much of the consequence of action will be understood by this child, who may have more physical and neurological problems than I can possibly tell?

I'm told this kid has done this before. All I can hope is that it ends here and doesn't happen again to anyone else again.

But, really, I'm as mad as piss about this.

And on another note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY C.P.!

Babies having babies

I was at the gym and overheard a woman talk about a relative of hers who is having a baby...at 13.

Thirteen? That's like a baby having a baby! Can the body of a 13-year-old even manage to carry a child, I wonder?

My goodness, when I was 13, I was still in Jenny Meehan's family room with my middle sister and the three of us were making our "comedy tapes." We were watching daytime reruns of Saturday Night Live and wanted to make a show of our own on Jenny's tape recorder. We parodied commercials; we came up with skits (I fondly remembered the one of a pride of lions feasting on Placenta Helper); we had recurring characters like Mrs. Robisnotski; we were our own musical guests.

When I was volunteering at a birth control centre out west, I once had to assist on a pregnancy test for a 12-year-old. Thankfully, it was negative, but the child was, I truly believed, a prostitute or in some really sick situation, so who knows what happened to her.

And just yesterday, Daughter made an out-of-the blue announcement that almost every girl in the class in liked by at least one boy. She has one, who is really more like a best friend and I like it that way thanks, but all the boys have a crush on Nicole. Then she states, "I think boys like blond girls better." Daughter is a brunette. Yeah, I stopped folding laundry and Husband turned off the Golf Channel and we had a nice chat with her.

I should show her how to use a tape recorder.

I'm not pregnant. I'm fat.

Three weeks into a three-times-a-week gym regimen. I'm feeling stronger. And, hey! I need a belt for my "fat days" jeans.

I was, in fact, wearing them yesterday with an old baseball jersey of mine. Not glamourous, but I was comfortable.

So when a mom from the nursery school saw me at the library and asked, "When are you due?" I sucked in my breath and managed a lighthearted, "Two-and-a half years ago." She mutters an apology and said that it must have been what I was wearing that day. Sure.

I picked up my kids from school and this other mom I know said, "Whoa! Are you pregnant with your fourth?" Holy Mary, full of grace; don't let me punch her in the face. "No," I said rather curtly.

But then she went on. "How many kids do you have?"

"Three."

"Then you're pregnant with your fourth," she insisted.

"No, I'm not."

She breathes a sigh of frustration with me, "C'mon. What's after 3? Four! You're pregnant with your fourth!"

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes and I said, slowly (hoping she'd understand what I was saying...in English), "I'm not pregnant with my fourth because I. Am. Not. Pregnant."

And at that, she paused, wide-mouthed, quickly shut her big pie-hole and muttered, "Sorry" as she pushed her stroller away.

I was - and still am - so depressed and discouraged. I want to dust off my old Exploited records and wallow in anger. If only I had a record player.

So let this be a lesson to you all. NEVER ask a woman if she's pregnant. It is soooo rude. And, frankly, it's none of your effing business.

Arrrgh.

And here's an article telling me I'm doubly cursed. All those pastizzi slowed down my metabolism to a crawl when I hit 35.

The Anti-bullying and primo burping expert

I'm trying to put down Baby Booger - I mean Boy - last night (it was after 9 and he was still in party mode). My baby sister calls and leaves a message. "Check out CP24. Our cousin is on."

So, sure, I turn on the TV and I'm watching a phone-in talk show called Legal Briefs. And the guest expert is my cousin talking about bullying. He's a big shot in the community relations department of the Toronto Argonauts and they've got this thing where they go to various Toronto-area schools and discuss student aggression and intimidation.

And he was so great. The makeup department got his oily skin under control, so he even looked good too. Man, he was so authoritative and downright cool. And, yet, all I could think about was, "That's the guy who used to torture toads we found by the Humber River; the guy who played Barbies with us." My sister emailed me after and said, "I wanted to phone in and ask him to burp 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.'"

We all grow up.

This is my cousin's baby.

My cool car freshener

My cool car freshener
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

I unearthed the pink fur seat cover for the gawdawful minivan. It has "princess" embroidered into the sparkly plush. Goes reeeal nice with the hula girl and the Vegas Elvis decorations on the dash.

But this car freshener takes the cake. I paid the ghastly sum of $4 for it but, oooh, how I love it.

Rockstar: Echo and the Bunnymen

My brother-in-law suggested to Husband to use the name "Duke" for the Beavers. It looks like that's the one that's sticking.

I'm such a dork. I am kinda going through Rockstar:INXS withdrawl. There's just something about that JD Fortune guy that makes me want to watch. I swear, he was the only one left that was just plain mesmerizing to watch. So glad he won.

But then he performed a song with INXS that the band had been working on and I thought, "Hmmm, maybe not much of a prize, eh?" I mean, I'm of a particular age that would have been in prime l.p. (yes, vinyl!) buying mode when INXS first came out. They got airplay, both on the radio and on MuchMusic (with Michael Hutchence, how could they not?). But was anyone I know a bigtime fan? Nope.

And if they did a similar show with Echo and the Bunnymen to replace the dead drummer, would anyone but me be riveted?

You heard right

Nope, this time the telephone wasn't broken. Husband's cousin is waiting to get a biopsy.

She's surely going out of her head, what with three kids under the age of 6 and having just built her dream home and all. Just when you think life is just starting...

Broken Telephone

I've learned not to say too much when talking on the phone with my older generation in-laws. I once mentioned off-hand to Husband's grandmother that Middle Child was having trouble adjusting to kindergarten. No big whup. It was the first week of school. About a week later, my mother-in-law calls, practically jumping down my throat about how I have that boy tapped out in too many activities. Huh?

The same happened to Husband's married brother. Mother-in-law probably went over to visit and the brother and his wife got into a little argument. I'm sure it was nothing, if anything at all. Anyway, the grandmother calls and tells me that they're having serious marital problems. Of course, I tell Husband, Husband calls Brother, Brother says, "Huh?"

So now we just heard from Mother-in-law that Husband's 35-year-old cousin has a couple of tumours on her neck and "it doesn't look good." I told Husband and he rolled his eyes. "Yeah, no sense getting upset, I guess, until I call my aunt myself."

Where there's smoke...

Yesterday, two people (on separate occasions) asked to bum a cigarette off me. The second time it happened to me (it was a boy who was maybe in Grade 9), after I said, "I don't smoke" actually said, "Are you sure?"

Of course, I replied, "Yes, I'm sure! That shit will kill you and it does horrible things to your skin, you know," hoping this would appeal to an already pizza-faced kid. And then I walked away, pushing a napping Baby Boy in the stroller, thinking, "'Are you sure?' What the hell does THAT mean? Do I look like I smoke?"

I mean, I haven't been asked for a cigarette since hanging out in the smoking section outside of my high school, like a hundred years ago. Hardly anyone I know smokes now, and if they do, the waaaay vast majority are over the age of 55.

Why did these two guys, in the span of about four hours, ask ME for a cigarette? Let's see. What was I wearing? A pair of jeans, my blue "Plays Well With Others" t-shirt and my Barbie pink trench coat. I had makeup on and my hair looked alright. Not that you can tell someone smokes from how they look.

When I signed up at the gym, the staff member naturally asked if I smoked. She raised her eyebrows when I said I didn't, but she quickly countered with, "Well you sound like you do! You got that sexy FM radio announcer voice." Yeah, not when I'm being the Shrill Mom by day, honey.

Anyway, I know I'm making too much out of this, but I just thought it was really weird. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket or not drive a car for 24 hours or something...

What's the deal with smoking in movies? Are tobacco companies compensating movie studios to place smoking in their films or are filmmakers making their actors smoke to flesh out their characters? I can see why Faye Dunaway would have to smoke in Barfly or another actor in another bleak movie. But, here's a website to make you think. And also because all the local papers here have loaded their entertainment sections with Toronto Film Festival caca.

God and Gandalf

Middle Child had his first Beavers meeting yesterday. Husband took him and stuck around for the whole meeting, causing him to be "volentold" as a leader of sorts.

He's fine with this, and even suggested that he can be counted on for two Tuesdays a month.

But what threw him was what he threw at me the moment he walked in the door back home.

"Is Beavers supposed to be a non-denominational organization?"

"Uh, isn't there a vow to 'God, the Queen and the country?'" I wondered. "Why do you ask?"

Well, apparantly, it was storytime or something and the leader pulls out a children's bible and starts talking about Moses and stuff.

"Well, when it's my time to read the boys a story," Husband shrugged, "I'm gonna read them a really gruesome chapter from Lord of the Rings."

Which Lord of the Rings character are you most like? I'm Merry, I'm told. Whatever. I haven't read any of the books nor have I seen any of the movies. So there you go.

I just don't like you

I went to my first exercise class ever yesterday. My friend that I was with is a super friendly person and will try to engage in conversation with just about anyone.

She and I were nervously gabbing before class started and she turned to this woman beside her and asked her a question. Something simple, not like asking "Why do they call it the Holy Roman Empire when it wasn't holy nor Roman?"

Anyway, this woman just gave her a "fuck you" look and walked away. I raised my eyebrows and my friend and I continued talking.

But, honestly, I could never be in a position to call this woman's actions bitchy, because I'm guilty of the same behaviour. Truly, I do it and most times I'm even conscious of doing it. Heck, I'm sure I did it several times on Sunday alone.

But once, just once, I'd love to be confronted. When/if the day comes when someone will call me a bitch to my face, I would love to say, "I'm not being antipathetic. I just don't like you."

And in other news, the kids got their second yellow stripe in karate.

My brother-in-law says this blog is getting political

image001
Originally uploaded by Nimcheena.

So this photo is the last I'll say about that. I think.

Baby Boy had his first day at nursery school. I thought he'd have a difficult time separating from me but I bid him adieu and he kissed me and went back to his Tonka tractor. When I picked him up, he was sitting at the play dough table, saw me and shouted, "NOOOO! Go away! Leave me alone, Mumma!"

I spent the first morning all to myself at - tada! - my new gym. No more mamby-pamby Curves for me and my lard ass. I joined a Good Life and even bought into a 12-session personal trainer thingie. I enjoyed Curves and all, but I just couldn't find childcare. This place has it.

When I was out west, my sister-in-law took me to a "gym gym" as Husband calls it - cardio machines, weights, classes, even a tanning bed. Best of all, they had childminding. Wouldn't you know, my friends "the Annes" had just joined Good Life when I was out west, knowing I would sign up where ever they went.

And it's working out great. I've only gone twice but so far, so good. The Annes are going often and, gratefully, call me when they think I can make it (which is anytime, now that I have childcare). I go for my first aerobic-ish class on Monday, me and my two left feet. But I have no qualms about making an idiot of myself.

The day after the most wonderful time of the year

Middle Child got the last of his childhood immunization shots yesterday. I'm loving his physician who first asked him what his two favourite lollypop flavours were. So he got them and asked Middle Child to hold them, one in each hand.

"We're going to see which one tastes better. When I tell you, pop the purple one in your mouth first," the doctor said. So as Middle Child is "sampling" the purple lolly, the doctor is giving him his shot in the opposite arm. And then vice versa. No tears! Middle Child truly thought he was doing the doctor a service.

Yes, what a way to start the school year. Both of the older kids had great first days, though Daughter was disappointed her oldest and bestest friend isn't in her class again for the second year now. She's happy enough to play with her "boyfriend" mind you. Apparantly, they're planning on making a movie. Totally innocent, I'm sure.

We signed Middle Child up for Beavers yesterday and Husband kinda got wrangled to volunteer. He was thinking it would be a once a month thing but then the wife of the leader was going on about all the resources he'll have when he's program planning. Anyway, he implored me to be the heavy and inform them of his intentions. Frankly, I don't want him volunteering for more than one Tuesday a month anyway, because all my mommy buddies have kids in the same Beaver pack so there's some rough plans going on about hitting the bar en masse. Lock yer doors, sleepy town!

Husband's time is stretched as it is. Being self-employed can be a time-sucker. And then there's golf. Nothing like a hobby that takes you away from responsibility for five hours at a time! I'm thinking regular spa days for myself.

And now, after being woefully shown up by his rather fit brothers out west, he has taken up this new health regimen. He's joined a gym that's opened 24 hours (he left the house today at 5 am) and is drinking these protein shakes and a bizarre flavour of Greens+. We'll see how long this lasts. The day is coming soon when the chip aisle will be calling his name, I just know it.

What did I pick up from my trip? Good times and all, a reinforced admiration for my sister-in-law, and an article about this guy. Makes Michael Jackson's plastic surgery look like a bunch of 10-year-olds experimenting with their mother's makeup.

And just offside here, check out the iTunes Music Store. What is one of the top downloaded songs this week? The Tragically Hip's New Orleans is Sinking.

Go West

I always admired Kanye West in my own small-town, mother of three, still punk-at-heart kind of way.

Why I watch bullshit TV still confounds me. When I was little, I wouldn't miss the Jerry Lewis Telethon every year. Maybe I really believed it when the announcer would say, "A special TV event."

So when American television put on a one-hour hurricane telethon yesterday, there I was. Okay, Harry Connick jr. looked veritably destraught. He truly was speaking from the heart and was, I believe, devastated. But some of the other actors seemed to me like, well, actors.

Still, I watched, dare I say keenly listening when Mike Myers, in his Scarborough haircut, came on with Kanye West. So Myers reads off his teleprompter. Blah, blah, blah. Breach in the levees. Blah, blah, blah. Then West obviously isn't reading from the script written by some network yahoo. Instead, he's ad-libbing. And wait - ripping a new asshole into the US federal government.

West: I hate the way they portray us in the media. You see a black family, it says, "They're looting." You see a white family, it says, "They're looking for food." And, you know, it's been five days because most of the people are black. And even for me to complain about it, I would be a hypocrite because I've tried to turn away from the TV because it's too hard to watch. I've even been shopping before even giving a donation, so now I'm calling my business manager right now to see what is the biggest amount I can give, and just to imagine if I was down there, and those are my people down there. So anybody out there that wants to do anything that we can help -- with the way America is set up to help the poor, the black people, the less well-off, as slow as possible. I mean, the Red Cross is doing everything they can. We already realize a lot of people that could help are at war right now, fighting another way -- and they've given them permission to go down and shoot us!

Meanwhile, Mike Myers is looking kind of lost. He goes back to the script, but by that time, what he's saying seems as hollow as the rhetoric we've been hearing from the US president. Then, back to my man, Kanye, looking very preppy in a rugby shirt, for goodness sake.

West: George Bush hates black people!

Myers just squeaks out, "Please call -" and then the network cuts off and throws to a live remote with Chris Tucker who looks a little like someone just woke him up.

Finally, someone has the cajones to publicly speak what is increasingly looking like the sad truth. Historically, black Americans have, more or less, been left behind economically, politically and socially. Here now are thousands, literally being left behind to endure much horror, just because of their lot in life.

You just can't compare this to the tsunami in south-east Asia half a year ago. That came out of nowhere, and hit a part of the world that doesn't have sophisticated advantages. This hurricane could be seen days before. And when Bush slashed the budget of the New Orleans army engineers who work on the levees by 44 per cent, where do you think the $71.2 million US went? Gotta be Iraq, baby! I watched NBC yesterday (oh, how I miss the CBC) and they obtained a report on how federal budgets spent on hurricane emergency readiness was slashed over a year. The money that was left was going to TERRORIST emergency readiness.

I'm thinking the death toll and financial devestation of this hurricane will surpass that of the World Trade Center bombing, not to make light of that or anything. I'm just musing.

And did I donate to the telethon? No.

I may change my mind but I think that the US is a very wealthy nation. They have money to blow on being the world's foremost military superpower and building (and fixing) space shuttles. Can't they afford their own recovery costs? I'm shamed as a Canadian and an Ontarian when I learn that schools in the far north are so misfunded and running on fumes, let alone what kind of impoverished conditions they live with at home.

No, I'm in the mindset that if the US intends to keep our $5 billion in confiscated softwood lumber duties, they can consider that our financial contribution. And please, don't call us during dinner again, thank you.

Meanwhile, my kids are blissfully and completely oblivious to all this, despite Husband and me reading two newspapers a day. And they're still not adjusted to the time change.

Observing

I was reading the Toronto Star yesterday. The front page photo was gruesome but, in photojournalism terms, it was striking.

It had many layers. At first, I saw the devistation of this unnamed New Orleans street. Then, in the foreground, you see a foot, then a denimed leg, then, slumped in a concrete hole, a bare, bloody and twisted bottom half of a torso. But, still studying it (something I still do ever since university), I looked for more.

I saw two very long rebar poles with concrete at one end (and presumably off-camera). This pointed out to me by my handy brother-in-law (it was my neice's birthday, so we dropped by). They must have weighed 150 pounds or more, cutting across this man's leg. It probably had him pinned and he was crushed. Looking further, you could see that his leg was broken. The pain and the horror this man must have suffered!

But as I read article after article, I came across one written by an entertainment columnist, Antonia Zerbisias, which just shocked me more than the photo. Her point was that had the media done a better job, maybe it wouldn't have been so bad.

For years, reports of hurricanes were just reporters standing by palm trees saying, "There's some strong winds, y'know." Year after year, that was the standard. So perhaps people didn't take the warnings seriously. I know when my brother-in-law told me about the then impending hurricane before we left B.C., I thought it wouldn't be so bad.

But the columnist went further and mentioned that the US federal government had cut the budget of the New Orleans Army Corps of Engineers (the people who maintain the levees and canals) by over $71 million US. Had there been any mention of this in mainstream media? Nope. I wonder if the citizens of New Orleans were aware of this. If they were, perhaps they could have made a stink - you know, the sqeaky wheel theory? Just last year, National Geographic had a lengthy article about how, should the levees break, it would be catastrophic. All "would have, could have, should have" now.

And then I closed the paper and watched Rock Star: INXS.