Pump It Up

I received a sort of frantic message from my gym's head office. "I know you're all ready to take RPM instruction, but I need you more now in BodyPump."

So now I'm back to my original plan and am a little freaked out because it's way tougher. I also requested to take instruction next month in Burlington (the other options were Windsor or Calgary - and I have to pay my own expenses). However, GoodLife bought a new chain of gyms and their existing trainers and instructors will be going for Pump certification in Burlington. That being said, they're desperate for me to start asap so I have five (FIVE) people at head office shuffling things around for me so they can fit me in with these hard bodies. Great. It's going to suck so hard for me.

On the one hand, these people are brand new to BodyPump where I have been taking the class for three years. On the other hand, they're already fitness instructors. I'm a short 40-year-old mother of three who doesn't say no to cherry cheesecake.

I hope I can go through all three days without crying.

A Moment On the Lips and a Lifetime On the Hips

"A Scottish Treat" read the sign at the apple fritter kiosk at the local farmer's market. Curious, Daughter and I decided to fork over the $2 and give it a whirl.

What is it?

Hands up if you said, "Deep fried Mars bar." I am so not kidding.

It's battered and then deep fried for, I swear, five minutes. It has to be the richest thing I have ever ingested. Daughter and I split it and we couldn't finish it. And, yet, I know of an Irish girl who can eat two-and-a-half in one go.

Having been turned off by this was not the reason why I'm glad Husband hired the fresh-off-the-boat Portuguese immigrant over the been-here-30-years-and-still-has-a-brogue older Scottish dude. He's looking for a lab technician and put in ads all over. The Portuguese guy has been in Canada for two years, reasonably good English, wife, two young children. He's currently in the last month covering a maternity leave but will need to buy a car to get to work out here in the country. The Scottish guy was in his mid to late 50s, pretty much runs a lab but wants a slower pace.

I was thinking of writing about the details of Husband's decision-making process, but I'll refrain though I do believe he made the right choice. Let's just say that sometimes I really don't understand the guy.

A Change Will Do You Good

Middle Sister, do you like this layout now?

She said my last layout was too faint for her. Hopefully, this works for everyone because, God knows, the whole damned world should be reading what my spawn are up to.

Such a fascinating life I lead, eh?

Oh, and, JP, I'm all for Trojans in Teen Packs. You forgot I volunteered at the birth control clinic out in Squidney.

I'm Becoming My Mother: Chapter 5

Perhaps only my sisters and maybe my cousin C would understand, but I'm having another "I'm feeling old" day.

I bought Daughter her first Shopper's Drug Mart Teen Pack.

I am now going to listen to some James Last, pour myself a G & T and pull the rocker on the porch. And weep at how time flies.

As always, comments are welcomed. You can do them anonymously. Just be kind.

Putting the Rocker on the Porch

Ever since Husband's birthday (my younger man), he's been quite down in the dumps. His age, it appears, has slapped him upside the head. And it hurt him.

He's generally happy with how his life is turning out. He says he doesn't really have any regrets about things he's done or failed to do.

What gets him is how big his forehead is getting. What gets him is that he notices he isn't as fit as he once was (still stick-figurish but now with minimal muscle tone). What gets him is that he is suddenly middle-aged and feels it.

Then there's me. I'm doing okay. I wear my age like a badge of honour. I'm being pro-active about my health. I just need to do something about my job. So, yeah, I can't say I've been the most supportive wife there ever was. "You're younger than me," I say to him, half joking, "so suck it up and get 'er done."

Middle Sister is another one who doesn't like aging. I've never heard her complain about herself but she has a problem with my advancing age. On my 18th, she was nauseous at the speed at which my life was slipping through my fingers. Since that birthday, cards from her were always signed, "I can't believe you're (fill in the age)!" When I turned 40, she was in a downright funk that I might as well have been 140.

I don't think I'm alone in having an image of myself frozen in time – around 20. In fact, I have recurring nightmares of looking down at my university class schedule and not knowing where the hell to go (or feeling that I've missed so many classes). I don't shop at Tan Jay and have no intention of doing so. Granted, once the wrinkles are more pronounced, I'll probably have to tone down or abandon the Dita von Teese/Amy Winehouse School of Makeup. I don't want to scare the kids like the local middle-aged woman with the white hair and black lipstick and blush look does.

Which reminds me: The Slits are back together! Ari Up is a grandmother now. Which would make her husband, Johnny Rotten, a grandfather.

Wait until I mention that to Husband. It will make him feel so old.

You Spin Me Round

I was asked by a fitness instructor to consider instructing BodyPump last winter. It's a low weight/high repetition exercise class.

So after jumping through a series of hoops, I had my audition today. Sort of.

I did an "extreme" spinning class for an hour and then spent the next hour at BodyPump. Then I met with the group exercise coordinator for our region of Ontario.

"As far as I'm concerned, you had your audition already," she said. "I strongly urge you to take up instructing RPM (the spinning class) instead. You're a natural."

"But I haven't been taking RPM nearly as long as Pump," I said.

"Look, take Pump instruction if you really, really want. But I could use someone like you in RPM. You have great posture, awesome strength. You have cadence and speed. Seriously, you'd do well and I plan on expanding the RPM schedules."

I start certification in September. Pedal on.

My (Free) Hi-Fi!

What's better than a stereo but a free stereo?!!

My professor friend, J, accepted a position at an American university and is purging. The family needed a good home for Granny's hi-fi which J was given but never hooked up.

"I thought 'retro' and thought of you!"

So, upon my pleading, Husband helped to move some furniture around the dining room and I hooked up this sweet Pioneer/Technics system and – get this – the speakers are made by Enigma. Funk-a-dunk-dunk!

I unearthed some of my albums, much to the curiosity of the boys. The first one I pulled out was The Who's Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy. God, it was awesome to hear again that fullness of sound that albums give.

Then I started in on a bunch more: Bowie, The Clash, The Dead Kennedys, The Bunnymen. Ah, the spoils of youth!

Then I started in on stuff I haven't heard in probably 20 years: The Mighty Lemon Drops, Japan, The Gruesomes (man, they were great! What are they doing now? Probably real estate agents in Pointe Claire or something).

Then I started getting silly, listening to Kajagoogoo, Captain Sensible, John Denver's Christmas album (only my sisters understand that one).

I'm waiting for Husband to get home from the golf course (yes, he's golfing in the pouring rain. It's like a demanding mistress or something). He'll be impressed that I got it hooked up and working. And then he'll crack out his Rick Springfield records to, yet again, prove to me that: a) I met him when I did because I wouldn't have given him the time of day before that, and b) we really don't have much in common.

This Was a Total Waste of Nice 'n Easy

I spent the week choreographing and practicing my routine. I had nightmares. I refused a trip to Dairy Queen. I exfoliated, dyed, waxed. And the bitch cancelled on me at the last minute.

I was just changing into my "I look thin" workout clothes when Husband said, "Oh, you're back from the market." I was hocking my stuff again, completely preoccupied, mind you. "Your gym friend, Sweet Young Thing, called about an hour ago. Your audition was cancelled."

I phoned the gym to confirm. Yes, sure enough, it was cancelled.

"Any reason why?" I asked. "Is it postponed or something?"

"Uh, all I know is that we were told last night that the audition was cancelled and I was to tell that to anyone who asked."

Word is I was the only person who confirmed interest to head office in becoming an instructor. This really isn't a surprise to anyone. Not everyone is comfortable enough to stand on a stage with perfect form and shout out choreography that will be two beats ahead of the music and the moves you're currently doing. Often, when approached to consider instructing, people's response is usually, "Are you fucking crazy?"

So, did they cancel because only one person was going to audition? Why waste the gas on just one, sort of thinking? Or should I take it personally? I don't know, but common courtesy would have been to have contacted me to let me know it was off, I think.

I emailed the woman who was to do the audition, politely asking if she'd reschedule. Any time I've emailed her, she has never written me back. Oh, except once, though it took her two weeks to do so.

I made myself a rather splendid chocolatini last night.

Baby Sister's Baby's Nickname

We visited Baby Sister's house on the weekend where my brother-in-law, Home Chef, made a wizard barbecued cheeseburger pizza. The kids are still talking about it. And they had a cake for Husband whose birthday is soon.

Anyway, I just want to say here, in public, that Baby Sister has The World's Easiest Baby (TM). Yes, this will be my sweet nephew's new nickname here until I am proved otherwise.

Also on my mind:

- In case you are wondering, I'm on Team Whoopi. Why? Because my gay friends can call themselves queer. Same diff.

- I'm a little freaked out because one of the hardest bodied instructors at the gym is voluntarily taking me under her wing on Thursday and will help me to choreograph a routine for my audition with the regional manager.

- I am so loving Jemaine Clement. Would it be wrong to put up a picture of him in my laundry room, despite the fact that a) I'm not a kid, and b) Husband is more of a Bret McKenzie?

- Baby Boy can sing a bevvy of classic rock songs thanks to Guitar Hero. It's funny to hear him break out into "Rock You Like a Hurricane" in the middle of the grocery store.

Selling Pieces of Craft

Jules's husband and I shared a table at the local farmer's market today. It's something that he's been on about for some time. Well, he finally decided to go through with it, hoping it will result in a full-time job or something. And I'm tagging along for the ride.

I made my record album bags and some Kool-Aid Jammer accessories. Not a lot. I figured I wasn't going to sell anything because people didn't know we were there, it being our first week and everything. Okay, I thought my Jammer headbands would go because I priced them at a toonie.

I did sell half of my Jammer headbands, but also two Jammer purses and a record tote! It was a K-Tel album called Power House with a very ugly picture of a nearly nude Styx. The woman was thrilled with it. "It's for my sister's birthday. I was just going to head out to the mall, but this is perfect! It's so ingenious! You should be paid double just for having the creativity." She said she would have bought the Rod Stewart's Greatest Hits one for herself but didn't have the cash. She'll be back next week, she said. We'll see.

Jen's Babysitting Service

Was it a moment of weakness or onset guilt that made me agree to a sleepover at our house after Daughter had dinner at her friend's?

Whatever it was, I had, at the time of agreement, forgotten that the mother of said friend is not the most punctual person. I only remembered it when she was late to pick up her daughter the next morning that she had done this to me before. The last sleepover resulted in the friend being picked up just shy of 90 minutes late.

"My other daughter has a soccer game tomorrow morning so I may be a little after 11 am picking up. Is that okay?" the mom said.

"Sure. A little late is fine," I reassured her. Eleven o'clock or 15, possibly 30 minutes, later would still allow me to get to my grandmother's house in north Toronto for her afternoon gathering.

Yeah, 11 am would have been fine. Of course, the mom didn't pick up her daughter until 2:30.

"That was some rain storm, eh?" she said possibly by way of an excuse.

So she got some free babysitting and I feel like a chump.

So much has happened, really.

I turned, er, an age that is, literally and figuratively, an f-word. Got my drunk on with very close friends though none of us got actually drunk. And we went home by 11. No need to call Children's Aid on us moms. I did, however, introduce the group to whiskey sours and some guy tried to pick us up.

He started on me because I was wearing the tiara and leopard print elbow gloves, I assume. He asked me to marry him and I replied, "Sorry, but that would really piss off my husband." Jules added with a guffaw, "Stay away from the cougar! She's the mother of three, you know." That scared the guy off enough to hit on my friend and gym instructor I shall call Tall Blonde.

Now, Tall Blonde is rather beautiful in a classic good looks kind of way. Perhaps that gave her the obvious experience in handling the guy with aplomb. She kept her distance but was really nice, later explaining that she was trying to get the guy to buy us a round. Then he made a comment about how Jules, Tall Blonde and I could probably kick his ass, which may be an astute observation considering we're gym rats. Tall Blonde then decided to ditch him and unleashed a barrage of intimidating questions. It was lots of fun! I didn't feel bad for the guy. He was pretty drunk to start. I mean, the guy stumbled to our table. And he really was just a baby. He was drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade, for goodness sake.

And I got a nephew on my birthday too (which I hadn't mentioned in that earlier post). When Baby Sister told Middle Sister and I that she was pregnant and when the due date was, I gave her a hug and said, "So, I guess I'll be sharing a birthday." Everyone, my parents, the husbands, poo-pooed the notion. "Your birthday is nine days later. There's no way." "You'll see," I replied.

Husband thinks I should play the lottery.

The kids are finished school and, mean mumma that I am, I am making them do a page or two of "homework" every day in order to earn screen privileges. On the flip side, I got a season's pass at the local outdoor pool which is just around the corner from our house. They all did well on their report cards. Middle Child was especially pleased because he finally got an A in gym, making him a true straight A student. Okay, he didn't get an A in music, but it is a well-known fact that the music teacher doesn't give A marks to anyone (which pisses Daughter off supremely. "I knew what mezzoforte meant in Grade 2 because of my violin lessons. I'm in two choirs and even I don't get an A.")

We just got back from touring the Maritimes as well. We've seen Western Canada many times, but not Eastern. Actually, Husband only has to get to Newfoundland, NWT and Nunavut and he's seen it all. We had a great hotel in Halifax, right downtown, spacious and everything. We did tons of walking which wasn't the easiest thing for Baby Boy to do, so he was carried a lot. I think we did really well to fill the days, though we did hit every candy store we passed.

My parents came too and had a great time. My father immigrated through Pier 21. He wasn't in the door 90 seconds when he began to cry. You see, Dad was paying our admission fee ("It's my honour and privilege") when the woman asked, as every Pier 21 employee and volunteer asks, "Do you have any history here?"

"As a matter of fact, this was my port of entry. I immigrated through here."

"Welcome back, then!" The woman reached down and pulled out two gold stickers that read "Pier 21 Alumni" and handed them to Dad. "You could wear one today and keep one as a souvenier."

And that got the waterworks flowing the first time. He cried a few times after that. Mum told me the next day how much he enjoyed the museum; how much it moved him. "I think he cried so much because he was thinking of his mum and his sisters and how much he misses them now that they've died." I kinda disagreed. "That's probably only part of it. He mentioned many, many times that he had recently retired and how he owes so much of his happy life to Canada." Dad is fiercely patriotic. He had also mentioned to one Pier 21 guide that his sons-in-law are a descendant of the United Empire Loyalists, the son of recent immigrants and a status Indian. That kind of shit turns my dad's crank.

And all my video that I took is, I think, wrecked. I think there's something wrong with the DV cassette, dammit. Photos are fine, though.

Oh, and I made the local CBC News on the first day we arrived. They showed the boys and I sitting on rocks and pointing things out in Dartmouth Harbour. Apparently, there's going to be some development there. We weren't interviewed or anything.

Daughter said the Pier 21 day was her favourite. Middle Child enjoyed the scenic countryside drives, the seafood and going to a Ministry of Fisheries biological institute where he got to see (and touch) mutant fish. Baby Boy's favourite day was the beach in PEI and the hotel pool.

And I bought myself a totally rad Six Million Dollar Man t-shirt to which Husband simply sighed and muttered, "When are your middle-aged boobs going to wear floral prints?"

I may be older, but I'm not sagging yet.

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?

"Whale Oil Beef Hooked!"

An early birthday gift was given to me this week. I've always wanted to see the Maritimes ... and now I will!

Daughter knew of the plans for a little while. "Is Nova Scotia far? Remember how we read Anne of Green Gables together? I still love that book. How allergic are you to shellfish?"

But it wasn't until Baby Boy came over to me after Daughter whispered something in his ear that I got an inkling.

"Would you like to stay in a hotel for your birthday?"

Husband knew the jig was up, so we went out for dinner and a card was presented to me.

He planned everything with guidance from three of my friends. Everything is booked, which was another reason why he wanted to give me the heads-up now. He figured that I would find out about his plans when I'm on the internet. The itinerary was emailed to him and he knows I check the history, because I want to see what the kids are surfing for.

My parents might come with us, too. It's going to be wonderful.

I've been to the West Coast many, many times and even travelled across the country that way via train and car five times. My friend Jules, who lived in the Maritimes for a bunch of years, made an astute observation. "You'll love it because as beautiful as the mountains and the Pacific and all that are, there's precious little history. The East Coast is a gorgeous part of the country AND it has history out of the wazoo."

I can't wait to see Pier 21. I absolutely loved hearing my Auntie Mary and Zi's emigration stories. My dad was only six so he doesn't remember as much as his older sisters did. And the only thing that my grandmother, who used to talk with me often, told me about that time was, in fact, about arriving in Halifax. She said she was treated with the utmost respect when she and her parcel of children came off the boat. A man, who also spoke Maltese, helped guide her to the train station and rode with her until he departed in Montreal. She knew then that she was going to be okay in this new country and that, like that man, was going to be good to her.

It's a Gift

I've been tutoring some kids in English and, to wrap up, had the children write and perform a play based on The Mouse and the Motorcycle in front of their classmates.

When the performance was done, we opened it up to questions. Middle Child was the first to raise his hand.

"If you were given more creative license, what would you transmogrify into?"

But what was more startling to have come out of Middle Child's mouth happened when I was nudged awake on Mother's Day.

"Where do you keep the cooking spray?"

He made cake-in-a-cup and wrote a poem that went like:

Where I'm From
I'm from the gifts that you give me for no particular reason.
I'm from the music you blare in the car.
I'm from you changing your hair from black to red to purple.
I'm from the yummy dinners you make every day.
I'm from the good smelling quiche you make for me when I come home.