Womb With a View

"Can I play with my friends over at the church?" Daughter asked me yesterday while I was painting the porch. "There's something going on there. They're with their mums. Is that okay?"

"I guess it's fine. Just don't roll into traffic!" And as she took off, it dawned on me. The mums were there, with enfants, to join the Life Chain. That would be a line of people on Main Street showing support for the pro-life cause. My daughter. Mine.

Sure enough, she came home and had a million questions. "What exactly IS abortion?" I was unsure how to handle this one. How to explain the pro-life/pro-choice debate without getting too detailed or without clouding her with my opinions?

I chose to explain in very general terms but nothing vague and no lies. I think she's old enough to talk about this. We've already discussed the whole menstruation thing. I don't want her to think she's bleeding to death, you know?

But as I begun, she asked, "Would you have gone?"

Husband walked by at that precise time and laughed, "Mum would only go there to heckle!" So now I had to explain why, which I did again in general terms.

"Yeah, I thought it wasn't your thing," she said. "Actually, my friends asked if you'd be coming and I said that you probably wouldn't because you probably gave women abortions."

!!!

"Um, what gave you that impression?"

"I dunno," Daughter said. "You know a lot about women's health stuff and I remembered you volunteered at a family planning clinic. Some lady said that they give women abortions at those clinics."

So now Daughter knows about:
- menstruation
- abortion
- the birth control pill and other contraceptives
- the political system and women's current access to health care of their choice

But I haven't really talked about sex yet.

All I wanted to do yesterday was put a second coat of paint on the porch, dammit.

Apparently, I'm Going to Hell

Surely, I wasn't the only parent who had their back up when we were sent a letter from the principal of the school and the chair of the Catholic Education Committee.

It stated that they were encouraging us NOT to support the Terry Fox Foundation during the school's Terry Fox Run because they have ties to NCIC which carries out research with human embryonic stem cells (hEC). Despite the fact that NCIC's website states that no money from the Terry Fox Foundation is used to support research involving hEC, the school wants us to write cheques to another charity and that they were going to write a letter to the TFF outlining the school's concerns.

When I learned this was going down at the kids' school, I sat down and wrote an email to the principal. Apparently, I was the only one. It went something like this:

"I appreciate that, as a Catholic school, (the school) must maintain the tenets of Catholicism. That being said, I feel it would have been more democratic to have brought this issue up at an open-door meeting instead of having a letter, with content some may not agree with, sent to a very worthwhile organization in everyone's name. And had the majority present at such a meeting agreed with sending a letter, I would take no issue with this. Because this will be sent without discussion or option, I feel misrepresented.

"With so few true Christ-like Canadian heroes to expose our children to, Terry Fox is one that even the youngest in our school can comprehend. He suffered daily, in training and during the Marathon of Hope. He suffered physically, emotionally, financially, and he did it willingly for the benefit of all who are touched by cancer.

"If money from the Terry Fox Foundation is not supporting the NCIC's research using hES, I really don’t understand why we are diverting funds from this very important and helpful organization. It sullies the legacy of this great young man and the work of all those who choose to do good in his spirit."

The principal ended up phoning me last night. "You sent such a compelling letter, Jennifer. You raised points I didn't even think of."

Whether I'm pro or con hEC research isn't the point. I'm just pissed that such a contentious issue can be brushed under the carpet. And, uh, did they do their homework before they sent the letter or are they just going to come off looking like twits - in my name, I may add?

Anyhooo, he asked me to present my very valid points at the next council meeting. "Or I can stand for you, if you want."

Hey, I said, I'm a big girl and I've never shied away from controversy. I can hold my own, I told him. All I can hope for is that the parent council actually hears what I'm saying.

Crazy week. Got tsk-tsked by The Artist Formerly Known as Sunshine for not updating this blog. "Death to Facebook!" she wrote me. Hey, honey, I haven't updated Facebook so much either.

Anyway, last weekend, ma famille and I made the long trek into Hogtown to attend the First (Hopefully) Maltese Potluck among my paternal cousins. It was actually my idea, born out of the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring. I love Maltese food. I love my cousins' company. And there are fewer and fewer opportunities for us to get together. Getting together at funerals isn't so much fun, either. Add it up and, voila, the idea came to be.

Actually, I had mentioned the idea years ago and my youngest paternal cousin reminded me of it at the tailwind of a great family gathering last spring.

I wanted to host it, but I live too far for my Toronto-area family. Baby Sister graciously ended up having it at her new house. She and Home Chef ended up renting a 55-cup coffee maker and a whack-load of chairs, all which we didn't need.

At the last minute, we had a flurry of cancellations. So only five cousins came (with families). And it was fine. Better than fine. It was still an awesome time.

I fell in love with Youngest Cousin's two children, thrilled that they took to me and happy to give Youngest Cousin some time off. Been there; done that. Eldest Cousin scored two cases of Kinnie, bittersweet pop available only in Malta and, in my opinion, the best thing to come out of a bottle. E.C. and her sister gave me their mother's Maltese apron, which I wore proudly through the party. The grown-ups stood around the kitchen gabbing, and the kids were in the basement watching TV or playing in the backyard. It was just like what we did at our Nanna and Nannu's but the cousins graduated to the kitchen.

Everyone brought one (or more!) Maltese dish. We had pastizzi, torta, those fried spaghetti pancakes (does anyone know what they're called?), Maltese picnic salad (again, don't remember the name), stuffed eggplant, patata-fil-forn, ros-fil-forn, and pudina. The kids also got into crudité and chips, but they all ate Maltese. Even the youngest, 10 months old, tried her first pastizzi. Everything tasted great and we had more than enough food.

Eldest Cousin phoned me later in the week. "I just wanted to reiterate that you had an excellent idea and that my sister and our families had a really, really good time," she said. "We really want this to happen next year."

I want that, too. And, Artist, you can come as well if you want.

All By Myse-eh-elf

Shhh. Can you hear that? No? That's because – whoop-whoop – it's so quiet! Mmm, delicious!

Today was Baby Boy's first day of junior kindergarten. He'll be at school all day Wednesdays and Fridays and every other Mondays.

So many people were asking if I'd be all teary today, what with my baby gone, empty nest syndrome and all that. Nope! Maybe I should have lied and said how gut-wrenchingly difficult it was going to be. Maybe then people wouldn't think I have such a cold, cold heart.

But this, THIS is something I haven't had in over nine years: Jennifer time! Oh cripes, I bid the little guy goodbye (he was so excited and happy) and I got applause by two of my friends who knew what day it was for us. Anyway, so I was starting to walk home and thought, "I could plug in the iPod and jog it home. Or I could walk over a couple of blocks to the diner and order up some hash browns and not have to share." The possibilities were endless.

I made sure I have nothing to do today so I can do whatever I want until I have to pick up the kids. No meetings. No housework. Okay, Baby Sister has me going out to pick up stuff for a party we're having at her place, but even a trip to the store without kids is going to be just great. Pathetic, eh?

So, I'm going to sit in a bath this afternoon with a Manhattan, give myself a facial, a mani-pedi, wax myself silly, NOT listening to Avril Lavigne or Simple Plan or fucking Steely Dan (you can't convince me otherwise, Jules and Slowplum, that stuff is just musical wank to my ears). The hum of whatever is on Family or Teletoon or Treehouse will be off. That's not to say I won't be cranking something myself but, again, the possibilities are endless!

I probably wouldn't be like this if I wasn't 100 per cent certain that Baby Boy would have any difficulty with this new life chapter. The child has never woken up in a better mood; he has never jumped out of bed faster. He laid out his clothes the night before (frog t-shirt with yellow Hawaiian shirt with woodies and surfboards over top, jeans and his Mickey Mouse belt. Skeleton Airwalks on the feet with TMNT socks). Backpack: check. Full lunchbox: check. Hoodie if it gets chilly: check. Favourite trucker baseball cap: check. Lock and load, Mumma. And we were outta there.

Do I dare expect this day to go off without a hitch? I'm crossing my fingers while I blare some music.

Hey, Good Lookin', Whatcha Got Cookin'?

I'm kind of out of my funk now.

I had a great visit with my aunt T, who isn't much older than I am. She hasn't been over for a visit here in probably 18 months, but as I hardly get any visitors, that's actually a good track record.

My parents called from the Motherland. Mum had the accent already.

I'm feeling happy enough to really cook again. The weather is getting chillier so I'm more apt to work over heat as well.

Yesterday, I made four cheese cannelloni with fresh pasta I made myself. I bought this Mario Batali silpatish thing. I can't bake on it but it's great to roll dough on.

So I just made flat lasagne-like pasta and rolled up a mixture of ricotta, parmesan, pecorino romano, and mozzarella with a bit of egg and herbs. I used the last of my parents' tomatoes to mix in the sauce (and had to pick them all out for Middle Child) and even made a béchamel roux (actually, more of a balsamella). I used skim milk and it came out just fine. How awesome is that?

Yes, it takes time. Yes, all that cheese isn't cheap. But it was so worth it because everyone ate it and wanted seconds. I still had some left over so the kids took it in their lunch today.

Now THAT makes me happy.

Ever Have One of Those Days?

I have. In fact, I'm having one now.

They have the "easy" button. I would like the "rewind" button.

Sometimes.

On the Road Again

I need another night like the one we had last week.

Husband comes home and I get my drunk on with my friends. I am the best wife ever.

Seriously, I felt like I deserved it. Single parenting is no cakewalk, yet, even despite this, I do enough around here that I'm entitled to get out. Husband doesn't hold me back but I just don't do it.

So when Jools decided we needed a Mom's Night Out (capital letters for sure), I started counting the hours.

We had a false start to the evening. We pretty much got kicked out of one bar because it was wing night and we were only interested in drinking. So we moved down the street. Thankfully, living in a touristy town, there are no shortages of restaurants and bars.

Some of our friends came, drank and went. Some stayed until we literally closed down the bar. This was when we realized that the city rolls up the sidewalks early – and how were we to know? Collectively, we're so strung out by 10 pm on most nights.

So, Jools and I decided to take some shots of us playing in the middle of the main road (which is also a provincial highway). That's me in the pink Harriet-Nelson's-gone-insane dress with my purse that is discreetly screened, "hi. cram it."

I hope we do it again relatively soon. Not only did I have a great time, but I'm dying to get away from Baby Boy. Sounds bad, eh?

Seriously, the kid is riding on my last nerve. I need to put myself in his little shoes, though. He's gone from having a neighbourhood of playmates to none, zilch, zero. What's worse is that he doesn't start school until Wednesday.

The kicker here is that he should have started today.

You see, I received the student info form for him and the other two yesterday. It just has the kids' personal info and you need to make sure nothing changed. But I noticed that they had Baby Boy born at the end of the year when he was actually born in the beginning of the year.

I spoke with the teacher today about it, hoping to sneak him in maybe later in the week, but I can't. And, as it is, he's the second oldest kid in class. Bugger!

I know I sound like a horrible mother, wanting her youngest out of her purple highlighted hair, but I'm not. It's Baby Boy himself who finds it difficult to walk his siblings to and from school and he's not a part of it. A day for him is like a month for me, so this waiting period is just killing him.

He's watching Sesame Street beside me now and practicing writing his alphabet. And bitching. There's just so many cookies I can placate him with. And I'm wondering if it's 5 o'clock somewhere.

Baby's Got Back

Husband came home from a two week visit to his family and friends out west. He had a great time, as I knew he would.

He spent the bulk of his time with his middle brother and his family. Taught the nephews that in his world, it's perfectly acceptable to eat salt and vinegar chips for breakfast. And, as is the case after every visit with Middle Brother, Husband is on a new health food kick: smoothies. The blender hasn't seen so much work. But when you're drinking about five of them a day at the expense of chewable food, doesn't that negate the nutrition? I mean, surely you can't live on fruit and yogurt alone. But the man is also a stick. Why I married a man with a smaller ass than mine is beyond me.

Ah, but my said ass is shrinking. I went shopping for myself while Husband was gone (see? I held it together) and I have lost two pant sizes. I'm sure if I could leave Le Tigre Giant without a 44 cent chocolate bar, I would have the body of Kate Moss – with D cups and a c-section scar.

Even my former personal trainer noticed. I haven't seen him in about 18 months when my contract ran out and I switched to verrrrry early morning classes at the gym. My friend Jools thankfully took care of my kids while I went this one afternoon. I was bending over, tying my shoe, when he said, "Wow! You look great, Jen. Your whole body shape changed." I mean, the whole thing sounded like a porn script, but I took it for what it was and felt wonderful. And I don't think it was the new workout gear I bought. It wasn't expensive.

Meanwhile, Husband got in visits to old high school friends, his mother, his youngest brother and his father who is in the hospital after falling awkwardly and breaking his ankle. Being paralyzed for years, the guy is stuck in the hospital for months now. Husband initially thought this was going to be a great for him health-wise but apparently he still gets out to smoke as often as he can. He even has someone bringing him Big Macs and fries on a regular basis. And the man will outlive us all.

Husband must have had a nice visit because he still tells me stories of what happened. I just told him that the kids all stepped up to the plate and really helped out around the house. Daughter's room still looks like Dresden after the bombs. Middle Child broke a few glasses. Baby Boy decorated the side fences with sidewalk chalk (we need a big rain). But I painted another floor's worth of our ornate trim, which is no small feat when you live in a Queen Anne revival.

On another note, Husband's dad was to fly out a little while ago but couldn't make the flight since he was in the hospital. One great side of being a Junior, Husband was given his ticket because, well, it's in his name. He has a year to use it, should he want to go to Winnipeg. Um, yeah.

Who Needs Botox?

You want the Fountain of Youth? Go back to your parents' house for a few days.

Don't get me wrong. I love going there in the same way my mum liked going to her mum's when my sisters and I were little. Granny kind of takes over and the shackles to the oven are loosened a bit.

The kids absolutely love going to my parents' house. They are the creme de la creme of grandparents. They take them to the park and everywhere. They have a very fine collection of movies. They play with them outside. They always have great (and favourite) food. They even have a play room stocked with toys, books, and craft supplies.

But, as it should be, their house means their rules. And that goes for me, too. This is how a nearly 40-year-old instantly loses 25 years. They didn't yell at me for not making the bed by 8 am or anything, but I did have to mind my p's and q's.

My mum's mind is on a host of other things. Baby Sister is in the process of moving into her first piece of real estate, just a week after getting in a yucky car accident. Middle Sister has a lot going on (I live the life of Riley in comparison) and Mum just wants her to be happy. And there's my grandmother (very active but well into her 80s), my dad's health, her volunteering and now this month-long trip to the Motherland.

She and Dad are going with my aunt and uncle. Now, I don't know if my aunt is more organized or if she's just really, really excited, but Mum was all freaked because she hasn't packed yet like my aunt did. My dad is more relaxed about it. "What's it take? I'll pack two shorts, two pairs of light pants, six underwear, a bunch of shirts and I'll wear my jeans on the plane." "Two shorts? Two?! Honey, that's not enough! You're going to embarrass me." Then again, what does my dad care? I doubt he'll do the laundry.

Anyway, I got the distinct feeling that she was glad to see our backs. Initially, she wanted us to spend the week with her but I didn't want to. As it turned out, she also realized that we'd get in her way. And whenever I'm there, I never know what I can do to help. I try but my efforts aren't up to their standard. Again, feel like a kid.

No, I'm sure that as soon as our car pulled out of the driveway, she was packing.

I'm an Adult Now

Daughter is into Avril Lavigne. She's been listening to her for about three years now, but, being a pre-teen, Avril is part of her identity. She's dressing like her. She's reading everything about Avril. She's a member of her fan club. Frankly, I'd rather she'd be into her than having her singing around the house about her "lovely lady lumps."

Niece found the Beatles at summer camp this year. She's borrowed her Granny's CDs and when her brother sings along, she defiantly tells him, "You can't like the Beatles. They're MY group!" I wonder if she knows how old the songs really are.

My boys will listen to just about anything, really. They have their favourites. Currently, Baby Boy is digging on Peter, Björn and John and, since getting the Shrek 3 soundtrack for his birthday, Middle Child is just loving Led Zeppelin of all things.

So, good and groovy mum that I strive to be, I made a mixed CD of Zeppelin songs for him. And I confess here that I've been just cranking it in the car.

Yes. Led Zeppelin. Me. All of you who know me can stop laughing now.

I'm a west-end girl from Toronto (I don't usually get personal but I've learned that my efforts for anonymity on the 'net are shite). By and large, west-enders don't go east, and vice versa. Honestly, the first time I hung out in Scarborough was when I was 20 (unless you count my cousin's baptism) and, until then, I always painted that end as populated with a bunch of long-hairs who go to Laser Floyd at the Planetarium, spitting out sunflower seed shells and hanging out at donut shops. And pregnant teens. And Led Zeppelin. Lots of Zeppelin. In other words, everything I was not.

Zeppelin to me was just my cue that the high school dance was going to end. Like I wanted to slow dance to "Stairway to Heaven" with some guy with lame come-ons like, "I guess I can't hide my affection for you." I would rather cut an apple in half and watch it turn brown.

Did you see "Wayne's World"? Mike Myers said many times it was a pure reflection of living in Scarborough.

Then what of the "Bohemian Rhapsody" scene in the Mirthmobile? High school friends of mine who read this now (thanks, Facebook!) can attest that I did that all the time.

I guess it's a sign that I'm – gasp! – mature. I can look past labels now and accept things at face value. I can listen to Led Zeppelin without looking over my shoulder and play it as loud as anything else I like.

But I still can't stomach Husband's Steely Dan.

Hmmm...

This is what I don't understand: why do radio stations play Bryan Adams's "Summer of 69" but bleep out, say, in Wheatus's song "Teenage Dirtbag", the word "gun"? The lyric goes something like, "Her boyfriend's a dick/He brings a gun to school."

I mean, the whole Adams song is about, well, 69. Not the year. Not some number between 68 and 70. No, it's about THAT 69.

You could go crazy with censorship. Where do you draw the line? I don't play Tenacious D's "Fuck Her Gently" around the kids, but they've heard all of the latest Amy Winehouse CD many times in the car. And I have no problem with the un-Wal-Mart version of the Avril Lavigne disc I bought Daughter. Like she hasn't heard swearing.

It's thoughts like this that hit me like a sudden itch. "Summer of 69" was playing at the grocery store and I found it very incongruous when I saw a grandmother singing along. Mind you, she must have been in her 20s when the original "Lady Marmalade" came out. And my grandmother just loves Tom Jones. She's the mother of 8.

When it gets down to it though, I wish radio stations stopped playing "Summer of 69" because it sucks hard. And you can read into the word "sucks" all you want. Censor that.

Yin and Yang

I just want to say that I have, for the past year, kept off 13 lbs. I could still lose some more but I'm quite pleased with my bum.

Meanwhile, Husband is still thin in a pale, concave, weedy, oven-rack-for-ribs, baguettes-for-thighs kind of way. He hasn't seen an exercise machine (or weights) since watching me do my thing on the cruise last spring. He farts away these protein shakes which cost $80 per bucket to buy and have done squat for his intension of having a Daniel Craig body.

Damn!

And I say that because $80 is a crazy amount of money to spend on a protein drink when I, personally, would rather spend the money on some really fine steaks. And "damn" because I confess to seeing Casino Royale more than a few times if only for the beach scene.

See? There's always been a few blond guys in my life who have broken through the tall/dark/handsome barrier I had. Husband included.

I wonder if mild-mannered Husband ever envisioned himself with a purple-haired girl? Oh, he knew what he was getting into. You should have been there today at Baby Boy's final soccer game. Soccer Mom. Drives a minivan. Purplish hair, the t-shirt with the fondue pot on it saying "Let's Fondue It!", sweet new wave Vans, getting all nostalgic and shit by listening to Black Flag on her iPod. And 13 lbs. lighter.

Snap

My father-in-law has never been in good health for as long as I've known him. He's sort of confined to a wheelchair but he does have some movement. The wheelchair and scooter is just his transportation of choice. The guy would take his scooter in his apartment to go from one chair to another.

You can imagine our surprise to hear that he was actually standing (with support, I'm sure) when he had a big wipe out and broke some bones on his good side. Thankfully, he fell in the hall. If he was in his apartment, he may not have been able to get to a phone and, as no one lives with him or near him, who would hear his cries for help?

So Husband was told by his physician that his dad will be in the hospital for - get this - six weeks. Husband is very, very bummed out now. He's upset that his dad didn't get to go to his small Manitoba hometown, but Husband is also upset because his dad didn't buy cancellation insurance ("But think of the money he'll save on hotel and restaurant bills," I said to lighten things up. I only got a "harumph").

But I think what might upset Husband most is that this totally cramps his own style. He was to be going out west to visit his brother and friends, but now he figures he's going to have to spend more time with his father. Oh yeah, and he's resurrected the idea of putting him in a home. I don't think that idea will see the light of day, but it does ride on his mind. I think it's just that he would feel more comfortable knowing his dad was being taken care of, especially since he lives so far. But, hey, he made that choice. Anyway, that may give a glimpse of the conflicting emotions swirling around Husband these days, even though he's the king of the poker face.

He has yet to comment on my violet highlights. It's the most I've ever spent on myself, I think. Oh, and it's way more sedate in indoor light.

This is Volunteering?

I'm one of a small handful of moderators of an online group. I do it for free. I do it in my spare time. I do it because I think it's a valuable service.

On Thursday, I learned someone wanted to sue us.

It started when the person who is moderating this week approved a post that shouldn't have seen the light of day for a number of reasons. She went back to it a few minutes later, realized her error and deleted the post from the group's archives. Of course, it was already sent out; there's nothing she could do to stop that.

A flurry of really biting emails came in shortly thereafter. Who does the moderator turn to? Me. Of all the others, she came to me. Damn.

So I've been spending the last few days putting out fires. Thankfully, we moderate on an anonymous basis but when someone said they were going to sue for libel, I cracked open my university notebooks. Nice to know my legal liabilities class was good for something.

So far, so good. No one has been served with papers but this has been a stress I will be glad to be rid of.

My Accoustic Motorbike

After much procrastination, I finally took my bicycle to the shop for a tune-up. The back tire hasn't been holding air very well and, as you can see, it's probably older than me.

I bought it at a Value Village for the tidy sum of $18. It was in fabulous condition; no rust, bent spokes, nothing. There's a sticker under the seat that states the bike was bought from a shop in St. Boniface, which hints at its age. St. Boniface was a Franco-Manitoban town, but has now become part of greater Winnipeg (which is another reason to buy the bike: an homage to Husband's family).

Another clue as to the age? The store's phone number starts with two letters. Mind you, I remember my mother ordering from the Eaton's catalogue, giving our number as "Roger 9, blah, blah, blah". Perhaps that makes no sense to my friends in town because, while Bell Canada had the monopoly on home phone service here, everyone had the same first two exchange numbers. Some people still give their numbers here in five digits instead of seven.

I'm digressing.

Anyway, when I wheeled the bike in to the shop, the sweet young things behind the counter made various comments like "What a relic!" and "It's a Garry!" (which is the name brand of the bike). Of course, after they took a look, they assured me that there's absolutely nothing wrong with the bike, but that they'd check out the tire problem.

Sure enough, they oiled the chains and changed the leaky valve and it runs like a dream now. I have my little wicker basket and I ride totally upright, channelling my inner Hepburn. If only my hair could grow faster, then I could pull it back in a jaunty ponytail. Until then, I will put up with, what someone used to call it, my Ramones hair. And I'm sure he didn't mean that cute little bob that Dee Dee had. No. It must have been that bird's nest mop of Joey's. At least, that's how I feel about it now. Serious action is needed soon. Humidity is the devil's work.

I'm digressing again.

So the total cost for the tune-up was $11, bringing the total cost of my sweet ride to a whopping $29.

I brought it home, freshened up the paint on the bumpers (which I regret because now it looks too white) and I shined up the wheel rims. Lovely.

That being said, yet again, Husband retains his title as the World's Most Expensive Spouse. He brought in his bike, a racing bike he probably spent too much on in the 80s, and also wanted a tune-up. Oh, and change the handle bars to something more upright. Total for his bike? $108!!! This comes days after he spent hundreds on a new driver golf club. And he gets mad at me for bringing back another souvenir shot glass. "But it only cost 35 cents!" "Jen, it's just another piece of crap. And you don't even drink straight liquor!" I'll give him the big Margaret Keane eyes and he lets it drop.

And I know my family out there agree with Husband, so I'll let it rest.

Pedal on!

Wino-Might!

Woo hoo! My sinus infection is no more and I'm done with the "no alcohol allowed" antibiotics which cost a ridiculous $55 for seven fucking pills.

So, to celebrate, I went to the LCBO and bought some Tanqueray (the kids wanted me to buy blue Bombay Sapphire but it reminds me of antifreeze), whisky (mmm, whisky sours...) and lemoncello.

And, yes, I bring my kids to the liquor store. They don't touch and I think there's nothing wrong with being raised around hootch as long as the imbibers are using it responsibly. I've never been drunk. Never needed to be. They also know not to touch Mommy's mixers, dammit.

My kids are easier to shop with than Husband. As you all know, walking into a liquor store with him is like (no offense, Slowplum) reading The Hobbit for me. I was no better off when it was done and, if anything, it left me with that "what the fuck?!?" feeling. The last time we went out together, it took him at least a half-hour to decide. And he picked up rum. Dark rum. He doesn't drink dark rum. He doesn't drink anything but beer and red wine and only at home. My first, Husband would have drank with me, though.

Funny, I'm rereading this post. I'm upset about spending $55 on medication which I needed but had no qualms about spending, er, at least that on happy juice.

Canadian Nightmare

I was walking out of the most awesome GT Boutique (arguably, as I heard the one in Smiths Falls is rather excellent) when I saw an older woman walking with a little Asian boy. He was about 6 and crying really hard. He was also very sweaty and barefoot. It was an odd sight and I sized up the woman.

Walking by, I suppose she noticed and told me, "This little guy was left in his car, crying, with the windows rolled up. I'm letting the store manager know." She walked him into the store.

That sort of thing shakes me to the core, more so because I'm a mother I think.

There was a little gathering in the parking lot. A Mennonite family and a woman in a tank top were talking when they stopped and the Mennonite mother asked me, "Was that your child?"

I told them that he wasn't, and that the woman was taking him in to see the store manager. At that, the Mennonites muttered that they didn't want to get involved and made a quick and quiet departure. Tank top woman said, "Good! I hope they call the cops."

The manager came out and asked us which car the child was in. He walkie-talkied it in and went back.

Right after, an Asian woman came out with four bags of stuff. I mean, she must have been shopping for a while. She went to the car in question, looked in the back seat and kinda rolled her eyes.

"You looking for your baby?" tank top woman asked sharply. Not waiting for a reply, she added, "They took him in because he was screaming and crying."

"But he didn't want to get out of the car!" she protested.

Then, here's me in my Murray's Hi-Fi bowling shirt and skull-and-crossbone Airwalks (the vision of maternity!). "Far be it from me to tell people how to care for a child, but you're the adult in the situation. I would have hauled him out of the car anyway. Or, if he's that adamant, turn the car back home. Sobey's is open 24 hours. Go some other time. What you did is illegal and the store could report you. Did you need your stuff that badly?"

She was rolling her eyes again when a group of employees came out and told her to come inside the store. She bit her lip and walked away.

"Wow," I said to tank top woman. "Thankfully, you don't see that very often."

"I bet you would if you were in Toronto or Ottawa or something like that," tank top woman sighed. "You can tell she's not from Canada."

Whaaaa? Fricking small town xenophobe. This is the reason why I like taking the kids south. It's not just to see escalators!

Not letting that one pass, I smiled and said, "Well, I'm not from Canada either." A lie but not too far from the truth.

She stumbled a bit and backtracked, "Uh, actually, I meant that, uh, you don't see many Canadians anymore."

"But I'm Canadian." Pause, letting her er and em some more and then I added, "You have a nice day, eh?"

I left wondering what would be a worse case of parenting: abandonment or raising a child with racist attitudes?

Saturday Afternoon Fever

There is a rather excellent toy store, scarily, one block-ish from my house.

I love how they have educational and relatively uncommercial toys. I love how everything is organized and decorated. I love how the sales staff don't ask, "May I help you?" but "Wanna see a magic trick" instead.

Every hour, they make an announcement, "It's dance time! If you're caught dancing, you win a candy. The best dancer wins a drink from our soda bar!" Then they crank up some lively Motown or something and all the kids start jumping up and down. As they get older, it becomes more of a shy shuffle, which is why my two older kids didn't win the soda.

Baby Boy did for his rather inspired rendition of "the robot".

Where does he pick this sort of stuff up, I ask you?

Headaches

I've been battling a cold for about a month. On Sunday night, I started getting this pain behind my left ear. Great, I thought. I have an ear infection.

I went to the doctor, alarmed now because the pain was traveling to my jaw. "It's not the ear, Jennifer," said my doctor. "It's a sinus infection."

He prescribed me some antibiotics. "They're powerful," he warned.

He also could have warned me that seven pills were going to cost me about $55. And I've been getting a migraine and gut-rot every single day now.

On the bright side, my cold is gone.

My friend M, who lives in Vancouver now, brought her daughter to visit us. Thankfully, I was feeling well. Daughter got her "I-want-a little-sister" bug out while M's daughter was here. Middle Child had his nose in a book all day, but everyone else played really great.

I've known M since grade 7. We were like two peas in a pod; she was my maid-of-honour. And despite all the years, she hasn't aged. She may even be skinnier now.

Seeing her now, a mother of one, a second and happier career, a home owner in a tony area of Vancouver, attentive wife, she seemed like she had her shit together. She came to my lived-in house with the funky coloured rooms and the jumped-on furniture, three totally different but equally spirited kids, and the marriage that fits like a broken-in pair of jeans. She confessed, "If we have another child, it will kill us. And I mean that almost literally."

Middle Child will come home tomorrow after being at my parents' since Sunday. I've spoken with him every day and he's having a great time. Frankly, I don't even think he misses home at all.

When I first called, I got an "I love you, Mum. Do you miss me like I miss you?" But by the second day, and just about any other time I've called him, he has been either distracted or pissed that I interrupted him.

Mum was a little shocked at how much the kid can pack away. "I could give him a portion like I'd give your father and the little guy will eat it all!" Oh, I guess I didn't warn her about that. Don't let that oven rack for ribs, baguettes for legs look fool you.

Eldest Nephew also shared the week at Camp Granny and Granpa but I'm told he's homesick and wants to come home a little early. This is cool with Middle Child because after Daughter called him up, he's anxious to come home too. No, he's not homesick. Daughter called her brother to lord a party invitation over his head.

"Jules's Baby is having a birthday party. It's on Saturday. Too bad you won't be here to come!"

Middle Child was having none of that. Mum said he phoned Jules's house to invite himself.

Cheeky as anything, he is. Thankfully, he's being accommodated.

I missed him like you can't imagine, even if caring for two children has been infinitely easier than three (for me, anyway).
God, I hope he'll let me hug him.