Parenting Mistake No. 386

Why, oh why can't I learn from experience?

Every year, I ask Middle Child what he wants to do for his birthday and every year he says something along the lines of "nothing." The worst is that when his birthday does roll around, he freaks out because nothing very special was planned.

This year is no different.

You see, my problem is that the guy doesn't have any close friends. He hasn't fit in but, as of last year but more so this year, he has been willing to find a way to be interested in things that most boys his age are interested in. He's not one for team sports, but will join in a game if there's one going. Last year, he'd wait to be asked until Husband told him that he just has to go in there, do his best, and act like they just forgot to invite him. Thankfully, Middle Child has the cojones to do just that. Sometimes, he's included. When he isn't, he still hangs around and takes the roll of colour commentator or sideline interviewer. THAT he came up on his own. Neat, eh?

This morning, I mentioned that his grandparents were coming over on the weekend.

"So that means I'm not getting a party?!??"

"But you didn't mention you wanted a party when I asked," I replied. Do I look like Kreskin?

Middle Child started to tilt his head down and make his eyes big so that tears don't fall (when they do, he averts his face). I knew he was crushed so I made all sorts of suggestions. I almost had him on having a birthday party after the last day of school and we were going through those he wanted to invite. When I realized he wanted to have every boy in the class except for two, I said that we should just invite everyone.

"Forget it! I don't want a party!"

Okay, now I didn't understand. Does he hate these kids so much that he'd scrap everything?

It took 40 minutes of discussion (no exaggeration) when we came around to the decision to have the party again. Then he asked, "Why are you so hung up on wanting to invite those other two?"

I tried to explain that it would supremely suck if there was a party and you found out that everyone was invited except for you. That's when it dawned on him that this actually happened to him. Many times. Many, many times. And he said so.

"So now I'm thinking I don't want to invite anyone because they didn't invite me to their parties."

"But you should be the bigger person, and maybe by coming to your party, you'll be invited to their next one. Maybe they'll see a different side of you. Maybe they'll want to get to know you better. Besides, you wanted to invite them before I brought it up."

"But now I realize that my friends aren't really my friends. They're just putting up with me."

Fuuuuuuccccck. By this time, we're at the gate to his school and the bell was about to ring. I was willing to stay with him, letting him skip school if need be but he was having none of that.

"I'm done discussing this, Mom. No party. Just forget it, okay? The guys are playing baseball. I'm going in."

Jesus wept.

Home Chef's Just Desserts

Reflecting on the visit with Baby Sister, Home Chef and Youngest Nephew, Husband and I were amazed at how natural Home Chef was with his son. We all expected Baby Sister to be good – she's had lots of baby practice with her own nieces and nephews. But there was Home Chef, Mr. Calm with this youngest of humans, like he's been around babies his whole life.

What makes it remarkable, Husband and I mused, is that here's a guy who had very, VERY limited exposure to children, save for his friend's son. Sure, the dude really made huge efforts to win over the nieces and nephews, making sushi out of candy or bearing giant bags from Sugar Mountain for example. More than that, Home Chef was present and attentive which may seem so, well, pedantic, but know that kids can see through shams. They can spot a phony from here to Disneyland. My kids took to Home Chef very quickly.

What makes it remarkable is that he's someone who didn't even consider having children or settling down in any real way. He had his job. He had his toys. He had his bar. And then he met my sister who, early on, told him that if he was dead set against fatherhood, maybe she wouldn't stick around long. Ballsy move on her part. Ballsy move on his for facing the uncertain all for the love of Baby Sister.

And what a reward.

Of course, he'll make mistakes that he'll probably look back upon and laugh at. Don't we all? Husband himself used to change Daughter's diapers every time she made a sound in her sleep. Actually, he laughs and cries over that because now, when the kids need parental assistance at night for a nosebleed or extra blankets or whatever, they call Dad.

Live and learn, Home Chef. Bonne chance!

To Everything There is a Season

One of my most common phrases I say to my kids is "Everything has a beginning and an end."

It's a phrase that comes in very handy for many different occasions: playdates, vacations, ice cream, TV shows, summer, bedtime, and people.

Today, it was because of our pet Peewee, the world's most docile and friendly hamster.

The Peester was getting up there in hamster years. About two months ago, we noticed how she was slowing down, not eating as much and didn't like to be bothered too much anymore. Very recently, I noticed that her abdomen was hard and her breathing was laboured. I knew she wasn't long for this world and mentioned it to Daughter as often and as gently as I could so as to prepare her.

Daughter and I were watching a rerun of the Much Music Video Awards together tonight (we were in Toronto this Saturday and saw a few performers practice). Husband finished tucking in the boys and wanted to watch a bit of House. It was time Daughter went to bed anyway.

"You can read for a little while," Husband said. "First, brush and floss and wash your face."

"And feed your pet," I added.

She opened the cage, reached in and took Peewee's red food bowl out. Then, startled, she gasped, "Oh my God!"

And then, shoulders shaking, "Mummmmeeeeeeeee....."

There Peewee lay, eyes closed across the threshold of a little cubby she used to store nuts.

Middle Child heard the commotion and came downstairs. I don't know if he was ashen because Peewee died (he didn't seem as attached to her as the other two had been) or if it was because Daughter was so grief-stricken.

Baby Boy was asleep. Either he'll take it very hard or my little consumer will see this as an opportunity to replace Peewee with something else.

The funeral is tomorrow morning before school. This may be setting her up to be completely miserable for the whole day, but, hey, everything has a beginning and an end.

Another way the phrase can be used? Baby Sister gave birth to a healthy, cute, chubby son. Daughter gained a cousin but lost a pet. We saw him (and his parents) on Saturday. Baby Boy was really looking forward to this baby. Every morning, he'd wake up and ask, "Did Auntie Baby Sister have the baby when I was sleeping?" Knowing how excited he was, Baby Sister wanted him to hold Baby Baby Sister. My little guy held him so gingerly, so tenderly. It was really precious until, "Ewww! My baby cousin farted on my hand!"

And thus ended his turn to hold my new nephew. Everything has a beginning and an end.

To stretch out the day and to make the long trip (and gas money) even more worthwhile, my brother-in-law Home Chef suggested we walk around. And, yeah, we watched the set-up of the MMVAs. And we ran into a friend, oddly enough, who was on a break from a 24-hour shift at a hospital. Then we went home because everything has a beginning and an end.

And I gotta get to sleep. Everything has a beginning and an end.

Go Suck a Lululemon

I thought exercising was easy until I took my first class. It was a low weights class. C'mon, how much damage can five pounds do? Well, the next morning, I found it so hard to get out of bed, I thought I had a paralyzing stroke sometime in the night.

And yet, almost three years later, I'm still at it.

My body shape has changed and I feel the healthiest I've been in eons. I'm not rail-thin but for a middle-aged mother who had five abdominal surgeries, I'm not a Sherman tank either. And I'm so strong that I can carry all my groceries in the house in one trip.

I take my gym time seriously. I listen (and take) the advice of my very awesome class instructors. I stick to a schedule. I really try to do the right things. And it's work. It's hot, sticky work.

So I asked a gymfriend I'll call Big Boobed Lena who always wears tanks despite, well, her big boobs where I could get supportive tanks. She obviously doesn't wear a bra underneath her tank tops and I'm envious because these D-cups sometimes need to be double-bagged.

"You gotta check out Lululemon. You have to drive into the bigger cities but they have several styles worth checking out. Not cheap but if you're looking for quality stuff with good support, that's the place to go."

Middle Sister, also a bit of a gym rat, has been telling me this for ages. She swears by their capris.

I happened to be at a mall in the Toronto area this weekend and thought I'd check out the store. I found about four tanks that said they were for high impact, so I took some. I went to a sales clerk to ask which of them would suit me best.

"What sort of exercising are you planning on doing?"

"I'm at the gym five or six days a week taking 60 minute classes since 2005. I do high-impact aerobics. Obviously, I will always require a bra for that. But I also do endurance weights and spinning."

Then the little 12-year-old stick figure looks me up and down and has the gaul to say, doubtfully, "No way."

I caught her eye and gave her a sour face.

Handing the merchandise in her hand, I said as politely as I could, "I don't think this is the store for me. That was quite rude."

I really wanted to yell at the kid, "Look, you little mosquito bite-titted girl, let's see how you look in 20 years and after you squished out three human beings. If it wasn't illegal, I'd punch you so hard, your baguette thighs would land in Lake Ontario." I believe I handled it quite maturely.

Just Keep It In Your Pants, Darling

"(Middle Child) came up in conversation at the dinner table last night," said my friend T.

"Did he get into a fight with one of your girls?" I asked.

"No, no! My youngest, out of the blue, stated that she was going to marry him. She said, 'He's really smart, so he's going to get a good job and make lots of money.'"

Get Yer Motor Runnin'

Not that I want to put the old man in traction, but my sisters and I bought him the most appropriate retirement gift for our dad.

If you know him at all, he's always dreamed of having a motorcycle. He has books, toys, mugs, shirts, all kinds of shit with motorcycles on them, despite the fact that he's never owned one.

Hold on there, cowboy. We didn't get him a scoot. Do I look like I'm made out of money? No, we got him the next best thing: motorcycle riding lessons at his local community college (a three-day course). He is incredibly excited.

When this was in the planning stages, I had to ask when a good time would be. My parents fill their days quickly. Before I received my present (the trip), I knew there wasn't going to be a fuss made about my f-word donut-year birthday because Mum suggested the weekend of my birthday.

Now, she mentioned that she and Dad will come up the evening of my birthday. Too late, chumps! I'm going drinking with friends.

On a side note, I found out there are about 125 calories in a whiskey sour. I wish I knew that before I went balls-out at the gym and sprained my fricking ankle three weeks ago. It's still really sore.

My writing sucks these days, eh? Let's blame the Tylenol and lack of sleep, okay?