Pattern

Happy anniversary, V and P.

Meanwhile, we learned another long-time couple, one of husband's best friends, have separated. Ironically, we received a wedding invitation from a young friend of mine.

Friends get married in their 20s, have kids in their 30s, divorced by their 40s. That's the pattern around us anyway.

Shake It Up, Baby

Mum came for a visit about three weeks ago and rearranged everything in the kitchen. Only now do I have a good grasp as to where she put everything.

She moved the little 1930s china cabinet that was in the dining room. Now it's in the kitchen. Thankfully, she kept all my Fiesta Ware and Jadite bowls there. But, for some unknown reason, only moved half of my vintage shot glass collection.

My mum loves to rearrange furniture. She did it to Middle Child's room, unbeknownst to him. He came in and freaked, so we put everything back.

And Daughter was a little disappointed that Granny didn't attack her room. On the flip side, she is knitting Daughter a pair of mittens that Bella wears in the Twilight movie.

Anyway, Mum also rearrange my pantry a bit. I found cherry pie filling (mmm...) and some vanilla pudding mix so I'm going to make some of that cracker dessert I learned from my friend with a diabetic daughter. Simple, but sooo good. I also found some coconut milk. I'll get some sprouts and make pho tonight.

Gawd, my life is so boring sometimes. Seriously, please stop asking me to Twitter. How I fill my days really isn't very interesting.

And the Neighbours Complained About the Noise

I'm either the best mom in the world or the craziest.

Last week, Middle Child had a birthday party. He really has no best friends. Instead, most of the boys in his class spend recess playing soccer together. It gets very testosterone-laden but it sounds like everyone finds a place to play. So, we invited every boy in his class to come. With a water gun. True story.

Thankfully, the weather was great. Thankfully, they all got along fine. Thankfully, I was able to get them to stop for a minute so they could eat. Various stages of undress. Lots of that boyish goat smell. It got a little Lord of the Flies-ish. Definitely saw some Jack, Simon, Ralph and, yes, Piggy.

Daughter was a champ. She was on the water refueling station, getting totally soaked. However, she loved having this position of power and got to lord it over the younger boys. "Hassle me some more and I send you to the back of the line, bub." I couple of the boys were crushing on her, I could tell. She was completely oblivious to it. When Slowplum (who was there to help out for a bit) mentioned it too, Daughter looked like she smelled something funny.

I bought about a 100 Timbits instead of a cake. I hate having leftover cake or paying for something that is just going to get picked at. I find kids either like just the icing or just the cake. Few will eat the whole thing. But Timbits? Every kid likes them. I made a lovely mountain, and lit the candles which were blown out by some punk kid who I didn't give birth to. We tried to relight but the wind wasn't cooperating and the natives were getting restless. So, with Middle Child's go-ahead, I told the boys to help themselves.

What was the scene? Well, do you remember that Looney Tunes cartoon with the termites attacking whole trees and leaving a pile of crumbs in less than a second? Such was my Timbit mountain. Boys were stuffing their faces with four or five of them at a time. It was entirely disgusting and unrefined. One boy would bite into one, not like the taste, put it down and another boy would pick it up and eat it. Three cheers for the Y chromosome.

My RPM Training Experience

It's been a week since training to be an RPM instructor. RPM is another Les Mills fitness program, an indoor cycling class where you ride to the rhythm of music.

My club is in desperate need of instructors and I find there's a bit of pressure to instruct more than one discipline. Since I'm horribly uncoordinated (read: clumsy), step aerobics or any of those dancey-dance aerobics are out of the question. My voice isn't exactly soft and calm so I can't teach the yoga-ish class either. RPM? Sure, sign me up.

Training was only for two days. We began with a master class, the only one of the weekend. Had I known, I would have paid better attention to the master trainer's cues in the hopes of picking up something cool.

In fact, we didn't spend a lot of time on the bike. I was led to believe that we'd be spinning the whole time. So much of the weekend was discussing musicality and the finer points of being a Les Mills instructor. This was fine because out of the 20 participants, only three were certified instructors (one taught AquaFit and the other instructor went to Pump training with me last fall, funny enough).

The focus of the program has changed. They used to encourage RPM participants to ride to their own top level. Now, one needs to find the beat of the music, and stay on it while having enough resistance on the bike. It's a goal to reach for many, including me. I'm running out of gas before the class ends.

There are nine songs in one RPM class; seven are working and the last two are recovery and stretch. I lose pace by the end of track 6 but I'm getting better. I have to. Apparently, if I don't have the correct pace for more than 15 seconds in my certification video, I will fail. Yes, it's necessary to film prospective instructors teaching a whole class. An assessor will then pick apart every move made and every word spoken. No pressure.

The first day ended with a bit of a bang. After learning how to set up a bike (all of us were riding in the wrong positions), proper form, and a bit of prompting, we were ready for the Ride of Truth. It sounded so fierce but really was just a series of time trials. It was tough but not unreachable. Cycle to the beat of the music for 30 seconds. Then 60. Then two minutes. Then five. Something like that. Those participants who hadn't taken many RPM classes prior to training had their work cut out for them, but I was warned and prepared.

We were assigned tracks to learn overnight and be ready to teach to the class the next morning. I was given the last working track, which was tiring but suited my gruff persona well. Besides, I had instruction experience with Body Pump so I was well ahead of the game.

I came home (training was only 30 minutes from my house), listening to the music in the car. I pretty much had it memorized, feeling confident that I could bat this one out of the park with a bit more time to spend on it.

But welcoming me home were Daughter and Baby Boy with a lovely case of the chicken pox. Daughter felt it coming on not an hour after coming home from the babysitting course she took that day. Baby Boy had one solitary mark on his waist when I checked on him. Ten minutes later, they started coming up FAST. By the evening, he was entirely covered. I have never seen anyone get it worse than he did. He had them inside his mouth, on his tongue, down his throat (he said), just all over. He was in agony or else he just has a really low threshold for pain. He was up and down all night. Thus, I only got two hours of sleep and no time to prepare my track.

We had to present immediately at the start of the class. My track 7 had to have energy and intensity. Sure, I knew my choreography but my instructor mojo was gone – still in bed where I should have been catching up on my sleep. The other participants were gobsmacked at my teaching. "Great use of your voice." "Your cues are so fluid." "You seemed so comfortable up there." Whatever. I sucked. I knew it. The master trainer knew it. I could have done sooooo much better but I just wasn't on my game. My pace was off. I let my form go once or twice. Yes, I wasn't nervous but that comes with experience. I learned at my Fitness Instructor Specialist course that what you lack in substance can sometimes be made up by attitude. I think it's a cop-out, though. I strive to deliver awesomeness every single time. And I didn't. My standards are high.

So we watched the videos the trainer took of us teaching. She asked me how I felt how I did. I said I sucked, followed by a chorus of "No way!" The trainer just smiled. She knew that I knew what she knew, you know?

More blah, blah, blah about cues and musicality and attitude. A break for lunch had me try my first Booster Juice. I ordered a strawberry protein shake that sat really heavy. I wish I had a coffee.

The afternoon was yet more sitting around and discussing how we can care for members (name retention, keeping it "real", and other ways of connecting). We were back up on the bikes for one final crack at teaching our tracks. The master trainer actually came up WHILE I was instructing to give me criticism. Um, I'm teaching here?! Where were we? Oh, yeah. Add resistance and standing climb!

I sort of felt the trainer didn't like me much. She constantly would ask me for my opinion based on experiences and then shoot them down in flames. "That is just not me. But, hey, if that works for you, Jen, whatever." Her way was the best. I didn't pick any fights. Yes, you are the master trainer. I bow to you. And I did. I was very open about it. She was even in one of the Pump training videos so I went in there admiring her before having ever met her.

In hindsight, I think she was really frustrated. It's unusual for training to have so few certified instructors. She really had to start from scratch many times.

Most of all, there was one participant who just wouldn't shut up that was giving the trainer much grief. She was so annoying. She was one of those people who had to give her opinion (always unsolicited). Any time someone spoke, she had something to say. Someone would give their fitness stories (always based on a bad high school experience, it seemed), this woman would turn it into My Life Sucked More Than Yours - a game for two or more players. We never heard the end of how difficult the Ride of Truth was for her. Suck it up, princess. Are you up for this? It's kinda like the wolf complaining about the wool stuck in his teeth.

At the end, we did the Les Mills hongee (I'm spelling it wrong, I'm sure, but it's a Maori greeting) and everyone got their pass. The trainer pulled me aside and said, "I want you to know it was a real pleasure meeting you." How nice. But I'll bet when I see her at the national conference this summer, she'll look right through me. Such is life.

And back to my chicken poxed babies and a sink full of dirty dishes.

Pox On You!

Tucking Middle Child in on Saturday night, I noticed that he was still wearing his dirty socks.

I pried them off his feet and noticed he had some blemishes. I lifted his pajama pant leg to see a few more. Lifted his top to check out his belly. Blisters. Yup. He has the chicken pox.

He went to bed happy, knowing that he'll be missing school for a bit. What I didn't dwell on is that it's going to get worse before it gets better.

Sure enough, he woke up with marks all over his face, clusters in crevices like his underarms. I may have been better off just pouring the bottle of calamine lotion on his back like I was marinating a flank steak. Today, he has pox on his eyelids, inside his nose and ears. He must have one in his mouth because he screamed when he drank his orange juice this morning.

This didn't deter Daughter from begging Middle Child to cough on her.

What To Do?

I keep getting emails for another woman. I assume our email addresses are very close which makes me wonder how much of my stuff are getting to her.

What is the protocol when you receive someone else's email? I end up opening it, which maybe I wouldn't do if I was worried about viruses and stuff. However, even if I don't know the sender, it could be a business thing. The subjects are never anything untoward but are almost always chain mail or a bunch of jokes. And on more than two dozen times, I get this woman's very personal emails.

I know that she has a son who is a complete hellion in his preschool. Another son has auditory problems. She's a realtor with a lot of investments across the country. She also has a very ill aunt.

I know waaay too much about this woman.

One freaky time was when my cousin's husband invited her to be his Facebook friend but sent it to my address. I asked him to tell her about this email situation with her but he said, "I'm a Facebook friend whore. I'm not even sure I know her." So I send him a photo of her. Yes, I even get photos of her.

Again, I don't know if it's socially acceptable to write back to the people who mistakenly send me email but I do. Usually one email explaining that they sent a message (or three) to the wrong recipient and that ends that.

But there's one person who keeps sending me crap. The first time, I sent her my standard letter. The next time, I sent the standard but added that perhaps she hadn't received the first one. The third time, I was a little more curt. The emails kept coming. I just deleted without opening. I figured that maybe if she didn't receive a response for a while, she'd phone or something.

Nope. I'm still getting "You've been tagged" or "Send this to fifteen amazing women" stuff. Worse are the ones that are so content-heavy that they take forever to load into the inbox.

Just last Friday, I sent a cease-and-desist in the most demanding tone I could emit from my keyboard. I guess I'm not a talented writer. I received eight messages in seven days.

So, being the bitch that I am, I'm thinking of sending this one person stupid emails back. Perhaps I should start with this video my auntie sent me.

Update

Middle Child came home today with a package of papers for me. In it was a recommendation that he sees a public health nurse to discuss his emotional needs. By signing the consent form also would mean that any of her findings would end up in Middle Child's file (OSR).

Husband and I are trying to be very upfront about everything with him. And Middle Child is great about asking questions if things aren't altogether clear to him.

"What would it mean if the nurse writes stuff I say and it ends up in my OSR?"

"Well, pretend that after talking with you, she thought you were on drugs. Then she could recommend you see a special counsellor for that and it ends up in your records for years and years. Any teacher can take a look and see, that in 2009, that nurse thought you were on drugs."

"Then no. I don't want to do it. And I'm not on drugs, Mom. But that was just a crazy example you used, right?"

Finally Finding My Sea Legs

I tend to be a bit of a pessimist but when something good and fortuitous happens, I'll call it.

I get to meet a LOT of people as a fitness instructor. People from all walks of life come to the classes. If I ate pork, I could so get a great deal on a half pig or something. I had a lively discussion about double negatives with a retired writer. I probably know more than I want to about incontinence from two palliative care nurses.

Thankfully, I met up with a psychologist and mother of a gifted child in one of my classes. I shared with her some frustrations with Middle Child (barely scratched the surface, really, because one instructor's advice to stay as private as possible resonated). Anyway, over the last couple of days, she's helped me get some serious balls rolling to get Middle Child attended to.

And the timing couldn't have been better. He got picked on again yesterday. And, again, he took all the blame because he didn't want to fink on his "friends".

I got the phone call from his teacher the minute I walked in the door from the gym, still on an endorphin high. "I found in his possession a piece of paper that read, "(Middle Child) is better than (Joe Blow)', and '(Joe Blow) sucks.' I called him out on his inappropriate language as it followed me walking in on him telling another boy, holding a tennis ball in his hand, 'I'm aiming for your balls.'"

I hope I came across as a little calmer than I really was. I asked what happened before these experiences. "Well, as you know, he's pretty tight-lipped." So I made her aware, actually reminding her, that Middle Child is being picked on and has been since kindergarten. He is a square peg trying desperately to fit into a round hole. Perhaps if she got to know him, gave him the benefit of the doubt, she could assess that in him and use her education and teaching experience to make his school days less like a fricking gulag.

Mind you, Middle Child has lost much respect for her as a representative of fairness and peace after she publicly accused him of stealing from the school's third world charity project.

What hurts the most is seeing him so unhappy. Coming in second is that he's accused me of not fighting hard enough for him. Why does that kill me? Because maybe he's right.

At Least He Didn't Swear

Husband is so cute.

He has some ads on the local radio station these days and was asked if he'd like to be on a segment of the morning show to discuss sport mouthguards.

He spent the next week reading and rereading stuff about mouthguards and sport injuries. I told him that the interviewer will lead the discussion and it would be over before he knew it. Don't overprepare, in other words.

But like any other time in our marriage, he didn't take my advice.

He was fairly nervous. He's not much of a talker to start with and his answers were really short. I asked him about that later and he said, "He asked a question. I answered it. There really wasn't much to embellish on. I mean, 'What are mouthguards made of?' I told him. Next question."

But then Husband mentioned that he makes anti-snoring devices and all that reading about mouthguards went out the window. That's all the interviewer wanted to talk about from then on.

The kids turned off the Smurfs when I told them Daddy was on the radio. Daughter stood by the speaker the whole time. Baby Boy lasted as long as the novelty of hearing his father's disembodied voice wore off. Middle Child shrugged, "Yup. That's Dad. Like I haven't heard him before." And went upstairs to get dressed.

Husband will be getting no celebrity love from those kids.

So, Like, Um, Yeah

I heard on the radio about a 13-year-old girl in the US who amassed a $3000+ cellphone bill. How did she rack up those charges, you wonder? ALL TEXT MESSAGES.

What has me laughing on the outside but crying in the inside is that almost all of them were sent to and from her best friend. How much do you want to bet that this said best friend was sitting beside her most of the time?

I retold this story to a 20-something and she just shrugged. "I can see that happening. I myself never talk to anyone anymore."

!!!

Seriously?! You never talk with anyone anymore? Sweet mother of John A. Macdonald! Are we going to have a generation of people who don't know how to converse? In all honesty, this person was in a job interview situation with Husband and he said it was like talking with a robot.

Granted, I love to write. Arguably, I probably come off as a cooler, better person in type than I do in real life. But there are certain nuances that can't be translated in to text, or if you try, they can be convoluted or misread. And, I'm sorry but emoticons don't count. Let's not go there unless you want me to open up a can of literary whoop-ass on you.

Jesus Wept

I can't sleep. I feel like I've let Middle Child down. I should have protected him better.

The back story is that he was beat up again. This would be the third time in a year. The first time was more or less understandable. It was a tussle from a soccer game. It got a little physical and Middle Child pushed the boy away to get at the ball. The boy and Middle Child fell over with my kid on the bottom. The other child was steaming and he bit Middle Child's arm, leaving a lovely bruise. What does my kid do? He doesn't fight back. One of my mommy mantras is, "Use your words; not your hands." So, he yelled at the kid, "You fucking bitch!" Boys are bastards, honey, but then was not the time to get into the nuances of language. The swearing startled the kid and he began to cry. Finally, the yard duty adult figured something was amiss. Duh. Result: both boys got a talking to and a detention for their aggression.

Time #2 was when a kid in senior kindergarten decided out of freakin' nowhere to give Middle Child a beating. He thought it would give him credibility if he picked on an older kid. Hey, there's a boy who is spending recess reading. And I was told that he threw about 25 punches. Middle Child did nothing. "I'm not going to fight a little kid." Result: other boy was suspended. Middle Child was humiliated but the girls in his class had a new respect for him.

This time, again out of nowhere, one boy pushed Middle Child on the ground while another pinned him. Middle Child would consider these two as friends. He's been trying for years to impress them. They're very athletic and popular. Middle Child is decidedly not. He has taken to acting like the class clown and to dumb things down so he'd fit in better. Okay, I'm getting sidetracked. So Middle Child was pinned into a puddle of water and slush while the bigger boy scooped gravel-encrusted slush down Middle Child's splash pants, in his hair, in his mouth. What does my kid do? He yells at them, lobbing the f-bomb like grenades. Result: all three kids get moved in the classroom next to quiet, obedient girls and all three get detention. Yes, even Middle Child because "the school has a no-swearing policy."

Now, when the teacher phoned me to say he was going to miss his recess, I thought it was because of a prior incident when the three boys were throwing an empty chocolate milk carton at each other in class. It was only last night, two days after the fact, that I learned it was because of Middle Child swearing.

In my books, I think his retaliation was in line; a natural reaction and a relatively peaceful one. I mean, he's getting crap shoved in his mouth. What do they expect him to do – just lie there and take it?

I've apologized to Middle Child for not sticking up for him and that I was proud that he stood his ground (and that maybe he should consider the criteria of what makes for a good friend). I mentioned that I will talk with the principal today and tell him that I thought he was faultless and that his parents condone his swearing in this incident. But Middle Child just rolled his eyes.

"Just forget about it, Mum. I have. Please, just move on. I'm happy. Really."

But he's not. He's been so disorganized since then. He's dogging it more than usual when it's time to go to school. His homework is all over the place. And he purposely flubbed a math quiz (did ten questions out of 50 and the answers he did give were outrageous). He's totally rotten to everyone at home; just being plain mean. He's been unreasonably demanding. And, what's really telling, his appetite has waned.

Thankfully, we're gearing up to Easter so he'll have some time off from school. Maybe staying at home where he's accepted and cherished for the interesting person that he is will bring his self-esteem back to normal. Until some other mother's son kicks the shit out of him.

Did I mention that he asked when he'd be old enough to lift weights with me? I bought a couple of one-pound hand weights for him (in slime green, of course).

Apparently, Pigs Can Fly

I was named Instructor of the Month at the gym. Go figure.

It was at the seasonal meeting for instructors when our regional manager said, "We don't usually do this at these sort of things but this person is so much fun, I thought I'd make a game out of it. Okay, March's instructor has a great sense of humour."

Lots of names were batted around. The friend who initially approached me to instruct was the only one to say my name.

"She fills in last minute."

Fewer names. Two people said my name now.

"She's a tiny ball of energy!"

So now only the short instructors were named.

"Oh, come on! This will be the give away. She made a Facebook group for the club and she held a St. Patrick's Day party class where she had snacks and prizes for everyone, and even drank her water out of a can of Guinness."

"JENNIFER!!!"

And my mouth gaped open. Seriously?

The Marketing Department Read Twilight As Well

Middle Sister, also a bit of a "Twerd", sent me this. As someone who used to work in advertising, I applaud those responsible for this. I mean, there's just so many creative ways to promote feminine hygiene products. A little, um, unorthodox but creative as all get out. And trendy too!

Still by far, my favourite ad for these types of products was one done in the early '90s for Playtex Tampons (I think) in Europe. Two little girls are in a field of daisies, lying on their tummies.

Girl A: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Girl B: I think I want to be a teacher or a doctor. What do you want to be?

Girl A: Well, I don't know what kind of job I want but I know I want to use Playtex because then I can ride horses, go swimming, wear the nicest white pants...

March? Yes. Break? No.

I'm trying to study for this fitness instructor test that I'm to take in about 10 days. How sad is it that I'd rather take a Pap test?

I'm also furiously trying to make stuff for the next craft show which is in 9 days. Guess what I'll be doing at my booth while waiting for a sale? This isn't coming easy to me. I'm so out of practice.

March Break is here. I could tell right away because the numbers were down in my Monday morning class. Yesterday's class was the fullest I've ever had but I was running a St. Patrick's Day thingie. I had prizes (a green juice bag tote, Irish Spring, green gum, green tea, pencils), brought in snacks (honeydew, cucumbers, iced green tea). People like free, it seems. I had my water in an empty can of Guinness. When I brought it to my lips the first time, I swear, people gasped. "It's water. I swear!" I got more guffaws from my "Irish for a day" sash and green hair extensions. Any bozo can go to the dollar store and get that. The water-in-the-Guinness thing was imaginative! Sheesh.

Middle Sister came to my class. She said I really motivated her ("I think that was the first time I ever broke a sweat in a Pump class") but, apparently, I don't lead the way she's used to by the instructors in her club. "Don't get upset," she begun. Hey, if I was afraid of criticism, I wouldn't be up on stage making a total ass of myself twice a week.

Daughter is spending the next few days with her and I have Eldest Nephew in return. Middle Sister has actual plans to keep her busy. She doesn't need it because when Daughter and Niece are together, they need no one. I, on the other hand, just hope to keep Eldest Nephew and my boys away from the screens for part of the day.

And when Daughter comes back, the first order of business, she tells me, is to go to the store and buy the DVD of Twilight. Say what you want about my parenting (and Middle Sister did), but I'm letting her read the book series. I'm reading ahead, just so I know, and it's a good idea. The girl has been gulping it down like other kids did with Harry Potter, a series she never could get into. She's just not interested in fantasy, I explained to a friend. "But Twilight is about vampires! That's fantasy." Er, not entirely. It's more of a romance than anything else. Kinda reminds me of Brideshead Revisited, you know?

Daughter has always been a good reader but this series has her coming home, doing her homework and chores, and then curling up on the chesterfield to get lost in Forks, WA. She's soooo impressed that I've been to Port Angeles. No joke. And, get this, she helps with the cooking. She's keeping her room tidy. She's washing the dishes after dinner. Why? Because that's what Bella does. I'm telling you, I'm okay with her reading the books.

Is the romance bits over her head? I don't think so. My tween is still a kid, don't get me wrong, but she has moments of maturity beyond her years. Maybe it's an oldest child thing. Maybe it's an estrogen thing. I don't know, but I'd like to think I understand my kid. I believe she can handle this and I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. I want to give her some independence. I've guided you from here; now I'm going to let go of your hand for a little while and be right beside to catch you if you fall. Baby steps.

Hopefully, she'll heed my opinion that, chances are, she'll never meet a guy quite like Edward Cullen. Further, if she gave up her whole life for a guy, she can expect a slap upside the head from her mother. And I'll get a slap upside MY head from Middle Sister with a smattering of "I told you so!"

Me and My Big Mouth

There's a governing body for fitness instructors in Canada, and I took their course last weekend so I could be certified as a specialist.

The other instructors I work with all told me to skip the classes and just take the exam. But since I didn't have a science background like they did, I signed up for the classes anyway. I took another staff member with me, R, a high schooler but an old soul. She's studying to teach Zumba, a Latin dancercise class.

We were quite happy to be going, taking it all very seriously, and really hoping to learn tons. We got in to the university with seconds to spare and took our seats just as the pro trainer was introducing herself and wanted introductions from the 21 of us in the class.

Maybe because it was in a university, but half of them were kinesiology students. Two older women wanted to open up their own gym in their small town. One guy with a brain injury and could barely put two coherent words together wants to teach Body Combat (good luck and God speed). One woman wanted to teach Step at her local GoodLife.

At this point, the trainer said that teaching the Les Mills programs at GoodLife is horrible. "There's no personality to them. The music is the same. The moves are the same. They're even given cues that they have to say."

And then they got to me. "Hi. My name is Jen and unlike most of you, it's been about 20 years since I've stepped foot inside a university. And unlike many of you, I don't work in healthcare or nutrition or athletics per se. But I am a Body Pump instructor, certified by Les Mills International.

"And I take issue with your comment about GoodLife and Les Mills.

"Yes, the music is the same. You can go to any of the 72 countries in the world that have Les Mills programs and the music will be the same, regardless of the language spoken. They spend millions on great music. It keeps people coming in.

"Yes, the moves are the same. They are choreographed and approved by a team of fitness professionals and medical personnel to ensure they are fun and safe and reachable for all levels of fitness.

"Yes, we have compulsory cues. They're always there so we're mentioning the technique needed to perfect and perform the moves in a safe but effective way.

"But boring? I take offence to that. My Pump class would be different from yours or hers or his because we're all individuals with a unique style and unique focus. And there's even a difference in classes because of the participants. I have young and middle-aged members on Monday and retired folk on Tuesday.

"And I know I'm not alone. There's a reason why GoodLife is the number one gym in Canada."

I'm pretty sure the trainer had some spin experience because there was some serious backpedalling.

Of course, there were other things that got my heart rate up, and it wasn't the endless fricking grapevines I had to do. Oh, yes, we spent 90 minutes on musicality: how to find the beat in a song. Seriously, everyone had White Man's Overbite. I wanted to cry, it was so frustrating. I ended up trying to wrap up the discussion by saying, "If I could impart my experience here, may I say that musicality comes with practice. You'll learn to identify the downbeat, learn to talk in cadence with practice. You're not going to come out of this class being as good as our trainer here."

"Or Jen," R added. Sweet kid.

This came after spending scant amount of time on anatomical issues, which was what I came for. But in a room of kinesiology students, I suppose my needs were trumped.

We had to choreograph two warm-ups on the first day. The first one was a high/low one to be done alone. I had to go first because I had instructing experience. I've never done anything like that before in my life, but I whipped something together, faking it completely. I even worked in some jokes about how I wished I had a bar and 50 pounds instead. So what I lacked in aerobic knowledge, I made up for it in personality.

Knowing I wasn't a bouncy-bouncy girl, I was then matched up with the two guys in the class to do a cardio-kickboxing thingie. I have no experience with that so I let the boys show me the moves and I led the class from there. "That was the best kickboxing demonstration I've seen," the trainer said.

"Great, because I didn't know what I was doing there either!" I told her.

So when it came to choreographing a muscle portion (I had to demonstrate interval training), I incorporated lots of creative but effective moves. Frankly, I rocked the house. I mean, I better! But then the trainer had the cojones to CORRECT MY FORM! On DEADLIFTS! That's probably the easiest thing in the world to do. I coached the proper Les Mills way: tip from the hip, bar held with hands just outside your hips, tummy in, toes out at 11 and 1, knees slightly bent, taking the bar to the top of the kneecaps while having it just skim the thighs. The trainer told everyone that a deadlift goes away from the legs and as close to the floor as possible.

"That may be true if one were to work with a personal trainer or on their own," I interjected, "but that is entirely unsafe form to be teaching in a group exercise setting. If someone in my class couldn't reach that far and hurt themselves, then I'd be up the creek."

"Oh, you and your big corporation. You're so wrapped up in legal issues." And she moved on.

The weekend was a complete Gong Show. R and I debriefed our team leader on the next day. Our stories made her visibly shake with anger.

"It's just too bad we need the certification," she said. "And maybe too bad for you because guess who will be marking your exam, Jen."

Why It Sucks Being a Body Pump Instructor In a Small Town

I was at the grocery store today with Baby Boy. He was pleading, wearing me down, like only he can, begging for a bag of Oreos.

If you're a regular mom, you'll understand. I pick my battles. This wasn't one of them. I put the Oreos in the cart.

And then I saw one of the participants in my early Monday morning class. "Cookies, eh? But you won't have any, right, Jen?"

Of course not. If it were Chunks Ahoy, however, I'd be home in a minute with a glass of milk. Still, I felt a little stung. Even now, I don't know if I'm embarrassed to have bought cookies or because my parenting may have been put into question.

And then we went to check out. The cashier recognized me.

"Aren't you the new Body Pump instructor? I was in a Flow class with you and the instructor there introduced you to us."

And then she started ringing in my Kotex, my Jolen, the aforementioned cookies, Kraft Dinner Crackers, psyllium fibre cookies (for Middle Child's wonky digestive system, I swear), etc.

Struck By Lightening v2.0

I went to an RPM spin class taught by my boss. After class, she pulled me aside.

"Who is that blonde woman, really yoked, in the back corner?"

"The one with the distinguished grey-haired guy, J? The total flirt? That's A," I said.

"Are they together?"

"No! They're just friends. That's what they told me a year ago. Besides, I talked with J at the Farmer's Market in December. He was holding hands with another woman and they were telling me about their basement, so I assume that was his wife."

"Well, then these two are having an affair because I've been seeing them going like rabbits in his truck in the far back parking lot where staff parks."

Ewww. Now I can't look at them.

I came home a little shaken. I don't like hearing crap like that, you know?

And then, that afternoon, I found out that my friend's husband is having an affair. He used her cell phone to forward a text message to his married "qahba".

So if I was shaken before, now I'm crushed.

What are the chances?

Quick recap of what happened while I obviously haven't been writing...

Christmas was great. Got to spend another one with my grandmother, which is always a joy because, well, you never know.

Submitted my video for Body Pump certification. I had to film myself on stage presenting a whole class and then ship it off to headquarters for someone to assess my skills. I'm thrilled to say that I passed with flying colours. It was a glowing report. I'm teaching two classes now and even have groupies! Two people follow every class I teach.

We went back to Daughter's Mecca over the weekend. Husband's grandmother was having a birthday party nearby so we made our way. Before the party, though, I ran into the Home Hardware to buy a t-shirt. Any Avril Lavigne fan worth their mettle knows about the Napanee Home Hardware shirt she wore on Saturday Night Live. Anyway, I walked in, took a cursory look around and then just went to the counter.

"I'm looking for 'the t-shirt.'"

"Ah, yes," said the clerk. "And how old is the recipient?"

Daughter was absolutely chuffed. "It's totally the exact same!"

It's great to see that girl smile again. We had lightning strike twice earlier this month. Daughter's friend's mother suddenly died of a cerebral aneurysm. She was only 34; the mother of three. My friend was fit and quite possibly the nicest person around. I've never seen her in a foul mood. I've never heard her raise her voice. She was so calm and friendly. She lied down to sleep. Her husband turned off the lights and not long after came the aneurysm. Quick.

I see people that look like her all the time. I still can't believe she's dead.

I signed Daughter out of school so she could go to the funeral home with her friends. When we got home, I was bracing myself to answer those tough questions when Daughter said, "Someone left us a message on the phone." So I had her answer it. It was from her violin teacher's husband. It turned out not 12 hours after the one mom died, the violin teacher had a brain aneurysm too.

Thankfully, she was very lucky. They took her to Buffalo of all places (they looked locally, even to closer big American hospitals, but no beds were available) where she's had a few surgeries and is expected to make a very good recovery. They're unsure if she will be able to play music, though. I call her every once in a while and she's very scared to pick up the violin.

Anyway, Daughter has learned a hard lesson about the fragility of life. She has been absolutely golden these days, albeit a little clingy. She makes a point of kissing me goodbye or goodnight. She hasn't been nasty to her brothers. She has little tolerance for people who are in the Happy Life Night Club and they're complaining about the noise. She knows life is short. It's a big pill to swallow at her age.