That Ugly Formica Table

I have been having a particularly stressful few weeks this past month and was contemplating it all on my way to work this morning.  Nothing major, just basic life stuff like flat tires, employee woes, house renovations and work stress, all of which you can add the suffix #firstworldproblems to.  No matter how trivial they all seem, the culmination of them all at once had me desperately searching my memory bank for my quieter, simpler “happy place”.

And out of the blue I found it: my grandparent’s Formica kitchen table.

You know the kind of table – the one with the wobbly tin legs that is a mixed colour or barf green and fecal brown that matches perfectly with any orange corduroy couch.  The kind that has cigarette burn marks on it and a wrap around metal piece that lifts off around the edges.   The kind that signifies for me hours and hours of card games, lovingly made grandma meals and late night surprise snacks.

This morning, I could think of nothing better than the simplicity of life when I was young and used to spend entire weekends sitting around this ugly table.

I had never really taken the time to think long and hard about my visits to my grandparents’ house.  They were a regular part of my childhood, and always something I looked forward to.   Theirs was a simple bungalow with décor and appliances that matched beautifully with this god-awful Formica table.  My Grandpa’s high tech stereo system played non-stop 88.1 cheesy soft listening music and it was there that I got introduced to such greats as Carly Simon, Neil Diamond and saxophone jazz.

In hindsight now its seems CRAZY to me that my grandmother never had ANYTHING better to do ALL weekend other than play cards with me.  I used to wait impatiently at the bathroom door for what seemed like HOURS for her to get ready in the morning.  (This was probably about as stressful as my weekend would get.)  FINALLY after a few jokes about “not falling in the toilet” (that had me on the floor in peals of laughter every time) my grandma would emerge and the card games would start.

We only ever played one game: Mexican Poker.  And I know for a fact that it is not just my retrospective memory that makes me believe we played it incessantly; we did.  We played for hours in the morning until Grandma had to get up to make lunch.  After calling Grandpa in, we then sat at around the table and ate cheese dreams or tuna sandwiches and banana muffins.  My grandpa and his dentures could win a contest for the slowest eater in the world.  Unfortunately his slow eating also paired with a robust appetite so I would often have to sit for a good 30-60 minutes after finishing my own meal, listening to the sounds of his dentures clickety clacking as he calmly and thoroughly chewed his cheese dream and then patiently scraped every last speck of muffin off the muffin wrapper with his Swiss army knife.

As soon as lunch was done and Grandpa was back out puttering in the garage, the cards would come out again and the game would resume.  We played so hard we sometimes forgot to get dinner ready on time.  We played so hard we had cramps in our hands from shuffling.  Over time we established brilliant theories on how cards started to arise in sequence if you played for long enough and finally had to resort to getting a proper card shuffler to ensure accuracy and relieve our sore hands from the monotonous duty.

We played so hard that one night when the clock struck 11pm Grandma poked her head up from her hand and realized for the first time that evening that Grandpa was missing.  She quickly went from competitive card mode to flat out panic when she also realized it was 11pm and WAY past my bedtime.  I THINK we might have also forgotten about dinner, too.  We searched the house high and low for Grandpa but he was nowhere to be found.  Grandma assumed the worst, “Oh SHIT, Lyssie,” she said with her gold teeth gleaming deamonously, “I think we’re in big trouble.”

It was right then that we heard the front door open and in walked Grandpa who had gone out to surprise us with a big bucket of KFC – our midnight treat.

I can so vividly remember the intense feeling of happiness I felt that night, enjoying a bucket of KFC with my grandparents at midnight, sitting around the Formica table, rehashing the scores of the last 5 round of poker and laughing at Grandma’s neurotic terror over losing Grandpa. 

When I think about today and my stress over picking the right stone for our new fireplace, having to replace a tire on my SUV, signing the kids up on time for the correct sports teams and activities,  it contrasts starkly with the easy happiness of those weekends at my grandparents house.

I hope, in the midst of our busy lives, I will make time to have moments like those with my own kids.  And I hope my kids will have weekends with their grandparents that leave them feeling loved and connected.  And I hope that one day someone loves me the way I did them; enough to have them crying on their way to work one day over the simple memory of an ugly Formica table.

Sleep Rebellion Tactics

I reserve judgment on which of my children reigns victorious for this evening's competing attempts at bedtime rebellion; I will leave the final verdict to you after I enlighten you on this evening's shenanigans.  

You know those nights - -after a particularly long day of work, when all that stand between you and the couch is the daunting task of putting your own children to bed.  It should be marketed as some sort of ancient torture technique.  It NEVER goes over well.  What unfolded tonight happened in the following sequence :

1.  Rob cheerfully left for soccer, kissing both of our angelic kids goodnight as they stood mild heartedly on the front steps, waving their loving goodbyes in endearing earnestness.

2.  All hell broke loose.

After what seemed like hours, Mia started asking to go to bed (a few minutes earlier than her stated bedtime of 7pm).  I guess she was just messing with me because when I called her bluff (at the cruelly early hour of 6:58 pm) her response was an instantaneous stop, drop and wail.  By the time I had her up the stairs her legs had miraculously stopped flailing but when she then pulled a completely irresolute inability to choose her bedtime story it started all over again.

As I calmly sat in her rocking chair, waiting with the miraculous and unwavering patience that we mothers deserve a medal for, she managed SOMEHOW to calm herself down enough to pick out the same 2 books we have read every night for the past 2 weeks.

The girl likes her routine.

I closed my eyes and read the books by memory as I rocked her in her chair.  She seemed to calm down a bit but every so often reached up to pry my eyelids open.  When the stories were over I turned off her bedside light and was about to sing her her bedtime song when I felt her aggressive little FIST on my mouth, clamping it shut.

“No, Mommy, DON’T sing yet,” she said in a stern whisper, “First I’m going to tell you a story.”

My eyes popped open with curiosity and once again I called her bluff,

“OK, Mia…tell me your story.”

Mia’s story, said her husky yet sweet bedtime voice as I rocked her to sleep, went something like this,

“Once there was a man.  He was in a pond.  He was very sad.  It was scary because this man was in a pond.  He was a man in a pond. And he couldn’t get out of bed because you know why? Because he had blood on his finger.  He had blood on his finger because he SQUEEZED it.  Like this.  He SQUEEZED it like this and there was blood and it was on his finger.  And he was in a pond and he could NOT get out of bed and then his mommy came and she saw blood from his leg and he had blood on his leg and he could not get out of bed so his mommy came with blood on his finger and his leg and that’s the end.”

I have to say, it was a pretty good attempt at her very first improv story telling gig.  The story itself MIGHT have lacked a little in its plot line consistencies, character development and overall point, but it got points for creativity and ingenuity.

And it’s a whole lot better than some aspects of Toby’s approach.

Whereas Mia had delayed bedtime with her feigned-story-choosing-indecisiveness, Toby was three game plans ahead of me by the time I finally had Mia tucked in her crib.  He had laid out on his bed his two LONGEST books from his bookshelf.  They were books I hadn’t read in YEARS and together probably extended bedtime by a good 10 minutes.

And then he remembered that he hadn’t brushed his teeth.

And then he remembered that he hadn’t peed since lunchtime.

Or had a glass of water since breakfast 2 days ago.

And had lost his pillow somewhere upstairs.

(I can’t even type all f this without rolling my eyes...)

Finally it got to the time when I was able to START the epic Berenstein Bear sagas.  And FINALLY the epic Berenstein Bear sagas were over.  I sang him his good night song and came upstairs.

After my never-ending bedtime with the two of them, I sat out here on the deck, for a while, listening to the birds go to bed (cheerfully, I might add!) and contemplating how I might transpire this all into a blog post.  As I came inside (about 30 min later) to get my computer up popped TOBY from behind the kitchen counter with Mia’s hair elastic in his hand.

“Mommy!” he said in self-defense as I inched towards him, “I found Mia’s hair elastic on the floor of the bathroom and didn’t know what to do with it!  So I brought it to you!  I am just trying to help!!!!!”

Not only had he scared the daylights out of me...I just couldn't buy the explanation.  OR the tears the ensued when I explained that to him.

And so I leave it to you…was it the ingenious story telling or the fabricated attempt to “help me” that wins the day?

SPOILER ALERT: It was neither.  The winner of the night was CLEARLY Rob, who avoided all of the above shenanigans with his Monday night soccer game. 

Canada Day in Three Words

As I was driving home this morning, after a wonderful fun filled Canada day weekend I heard a call in show on the radio.  The question posed to listeners was to summarize their Canada Day weekend in 3 words.

I came up with many different variations on a theme to summarize my own weekend

like : Campfire, Watertrampoline, Neighbors

Or  : Food, Booze, Fun

Or : Relaxing, Refreshing, Reconnecting

Even : Dad’s Demented Backpain

After a fun filled weekend with a wide array of activities I had trouble selecting just THREE words.  

This weekend we took the kids out to the village for dinner one night.  The excitement of “going out for dinner” was palpable as Mia put on her pretty red dress and cardigan and Toby allowed me to actually wash the grass stains off his knees for once.  We sauntered through the Village while the kids ran ahead and marveled at the number of tourists.  We rolled our eyes while the kids sneakily placed an order for CHOCOLATE milk (reserved only for UBER special occasions such as this) and enjoyed sharing pizza and stories before heading out for ice cream in front of the live stage.

Sunday we put the Water trampoline in the lake and invited our neighbors over to celebrate with swimming, jumping, splashing and Sangria-drinking (can you guess which one of the above I partook in?!?!?) before making the kids dinner over the fire.  Toby couldn’t believe that it had taken 5 whole years of his life before he was introduced to the miraculous invention of Smores.  Mia, ever the little sweet tooth, wasn’t surprised in the least and ate them with a fervent “I always suspected something like this existed” attitude.  While the adults drank and ate separately the kids watched a movie before we all reunited later for fireworks.

Monday we took an impromptu trip to Toronto to rescue my dad from his debilitating back pain that struck suddenly in the middle of the night.  My mom almost took him to ER it was so bad.  She had her institute that week so would be gone ALL day on Monday and for the rest of the week.  So we packed everyone up and sped down to Toronto to help out.

And that’s the funny thing about Dementia.

When sweet little Mia walked in first and very earnestly asked, “Papa, is your back sore?” he smiled, patted her on the head and then confidently stated, ”Nope!  I feel great!”  He didn’t know enough to even PRETEND to have had a sore back.  And so we were forced to make the most of this unnecessary emergency trip by making ourselves feel better with an afternoon movie in a real theatre, a trip to the local splash pad and after dinner Gelatos.

And so you can see my dilemma I had, trying to summarize my weekend in THREE Words.  But I think I got it just right : I LOVE MY KIDS!!!

(OK that’s four words – but I’ve never been known at concise.   It took me the whole drive up to come up with my “three” words and I obviously didn’t get to call in and share them, but felt the need to document this on my blog for posterity)

Rob and I had SO much fun together and with our kids this weekend, I feel I can say with great confidence that I officially want to freeze time and keep my kids this age forever.

In summers past we have had fun but either one of the kids was too young or I was too pregnant to fully be able to enjoy summer activities.   I had a heads up this weekend that we are coming into a new stage, one with endless possibilities and one that lets us ALL have fun (while still attaining adequate amounts of sleep…yes, that’s right - -any ideal weekend in my world MUST still involve the necessary 8 hours sleep requirement.  Having kids has given me Post Traumatic Sleep Disorder.  I will never be able to party like I used to again…)

I don’t think my kids are likely to remember the Canada Day weekend of 2013 when they were 5 and 2.5 years old, so I just had to document it for them, and for my future self to read when the cause me to pull my hair out with frustration; this weekend they proved to not only be flexible and resilient but also a ton of fun.  Right now I can’t wait to spend every weekend this summer with them…and all the days in between.

                                                                  "Love. My. Kids."

Geography Lessons

My sister Hilary lives in Calgary.  For those of you who have been anywhere in Canada this past month, not living under a rock, this little fact should resonate and immediately instill a feeling of cold sogginess.

It also just so happened that Hilary’s birthday landed on the  “uncertain” day of the flooding.  Where towns “around Calgary” were being evacuated and specifics had yet to be divulged.  Her little town of Okotoks, I am reluctant to admit, is “about 20 min from Calgary” in which direction I am unsure but close enough that for family she was in the “worry zone”.  If I have learned anything from this week it is that my Alberta geography knowledge is severely lacking.

It just so happens that we had reason to worry.   I learned this all via text messages which started with the inocuous “Happy Birthday’ and culminated in frequent updates on the flood and evacuation situation from her hospital.

My sister was one of the heroes.  As an OT at the local hospital, she diligently showed up to work (on her BIRTHDAY!!!) unknowingly committing herself to a 48 hour work day that climaxed in a code green evacuation from the roof and didn’t end until 1:30am a few days later after she had successfully managed to transfer each of the 120 patients into evacuation vehicles and off to safety.  Only then did she return home to check on her own house and husband, which were (thankfully) just fine.

During the course of these days of short-texted-updates, it suddenly became important to me to share this scenario with Toby, both to help drive home to him the reality of world events and to bring him closer to his Aunt Hilary.

Toby listened very attentively as I told him the story of the floods and of Aunt Hilary who was stuck at work, at a hospital, helping patients out (just like Mommy does) on her BIRTHDAY.

 We took a brief respite as I ran into the local strawberry farm to pick up a flight of strawberries for Rob to freeze that night.  We got side tracked by the delicious snap peas and asparagus.  Toby loved perusing the produce and we had an enjoyable stop over.  I had all but forgotten our previous discussion but Toby hadn’t.  I hadn’t even turned the car back on before he piped up,

“Ok, Mommy, tell me that story about Aunt Hilary again but start from the BEGINNING this time and go more SLOWLY.”

And so I started again.  I explained about rivers and floods and spring run off.  I talked about rain and precipitation and the prairies.  I was interrupted once to clarify the discrepancy from my first version of the story in which I said the waters came up “to about halfway up Mommy’s car” and the second version when I stated that the waters were so high people needed to be rescued by helicopter or boats from their roofs.  In hindsight I recognize the gravity in this error – there is a HUGE difference between “half way up a car’s” height and “to the roof of your house” height.  Toby was at full attention and there was NO putting anything past him.

It wasn’t until I moved on to politics, evacuation policies and job requirements that Toby revealed to me his level of understanding.

“OH, I get it, Mommy.  It’s kind of like in the three little pigs.  When the first guy had his straw house blown down he moved to his BROTHER’S house.  And then when THAT was blown down they both moved to the BRICK house.   That’s called an EV-A-CU-A-TION”

I guess he had gotten it.  Sort of.   And the question that came next was obvious- what would WE do if we ever got evacuated?

I reassured him that we would probably just go to Grandma Lynda’s house in Toronto if we were ever evacuated.

“Oh well that would be just FINE then,” he said with a shrug and a flick of his wrist, “Grandma has LOTS of toys.”

And just like that all of his worries about the scenario had ended.   How simple life can be for these little creatures.

At the end of the day Hilary is just fine; she is back home with her shrewd husband who chose to build on high ground.  Toby has attained a little knowledge about evacuations, geography and flood politics as well as a bit more context for his Aunt Hilary who, previous to this, had been known mainly for the awesomeness of her last few Christmas gifts.  And I humbly admit to having benefited as well – not only do I have a better sense of Alberta geography but also a newfound respect for my sister and her dedication to our mutual work in healthcare.

Well done, Hil.  I’m glad you’re safe.

The Backseat Popsicle Conversation

Toby and I had to take an impromptu trip to the local general store in Singhampton this afternoon. It’s a quick trip but I enjoy Toby’s company and it’s a good outing for him – IF he’s willing to go.  Despite the fact that he usually ENJOYS the quick trip into town, today it took some bribing; a popsicle bribe to be precise.   

After picking out a huge sugar-filled Life Saver popsicle for the arduous task of sitting in the backseat while I drove him 5 minutes down the road, he sat happily licking away in the backseat as we headed home.  After a few minutes of contented licking he suddenly piped up,

“Mommy…sometimes when you stand up you look tall.”

I asked him what (on earth!?!?) had possessed him to say that,

“Because!” he said a bit hurt, “You told me telling people they look OLD isn’t NICE!”

“OH.” I said and left it alone for a bit while Toby went happily back to consuming his popsicle.

Finally I just HAD to ask, “Toby, were you trying to tell me that I look OLD?” I said as neutrally as possible,

“No…” he said with a flick of his wrist, “I was just trying to tell you something nice that would make you happy!”

Ah…the power of popsicles.

I’m glad to know he is learning what NOT to say, but I guess I should give him a lesson on how to correctly compliment people as well….

The Great Mrs. Shields

“Do you want to know something, Mommy?”  Toby asked on our way to school today.

“What, Toby?”  I asked with an equal mixture of trepidation and curiosity.

Although the daily grind of getting Toby to school by 8:45 every morning has its difficulties, one of the perks of the job include the random array of conversations that we have had; everything from religion to saber toothed tigers to the intricacies of the St Mary’s kindergarten social scene.  I never know WHAT to expect when our morning drive starts out with such an open ended question but I am always keen to find out.

This morning’s sequeale caught me off guard.

“I know how old Mrs. Shields is.”  He said with great factual confidence and pride.

“Oh?” I answered, wondering what line of questioning his poor kindergarten teacher had endured yesterday

“Mrs. Shield is ONE HUNDRED years old.”

I rolled my eyes and then launched into a conversation I have had many times before (often stemming from his incessant asking of my mother’s age) about how it is not polite to ask people (especially ladies) how old they are.  I concluded the lecture with my own equally confident statement, “And just so you know, Mrs. Shields is NOT one hundred years old.”

“Oh YES she IS!” came a voice from the back seat.  “I KNOW it, Mommy. It’s the TRUTH.”

“Did ZACK tell you that? Toby?” 

There is only one other person on the planet whose word usurps the word of his beloved Mrs. Shields and that is his friend, Zack from SENIOR kindergarten.

Zack is from England. He flies an airplane to school every day and eats pop tarts for dinner every night.  He is the fastest runner in the class AND the best reader.  If Toby and Zack are still friends in grade 2 I suspect it will be Zack, not I, who will teach Toby the facts of life and I undoubtedly may never have grandchildren as the result of it.

The pause that ensued confirmed my suspicion but Toby wasn’t letting down.

“No…” he said hesitantly after a think, “I read it in a BOOK.  So it’s the TRUTH.”

I wasn’t sure where to go from here.  Should I reinforce my previous stance on the impoliteness of discussing women’s ages or work harder towards correcting what is OBVIOUSLY incorrect?

I decided on a combo approach and encouraged him NOT to mention this conversation to Mrs. Shields while subtly reiterating the fact that she probably WASN’T actually 100 years old.

The first part was quickly forgotten as he leaped to defend his position even further. 

Realizing that there was no way either one of us could reach consensus without actually seeing Mrs. Shields’ birth certificate, I told Toby that we would just have to agree to disagree.

“Well WHAT does THAT mean?!?!” an exasperated five year old sighed from behind me.

Determined to have SOMETHING good come of this conversation I explained to him that sometimes when you are disagreeing with someone you recognize that neither of you are going to agree and so you just reach a friendly agreement that you will have a different opinion on the matter.  (Phrased in much more kid-friendly jargon.)

Toby thought about this for a little while before heaving a sigh of resignation.

“Well OK that’s fine with me, mom.”

For a brief second in time I thought I had won.  Until I heard the end of his sentence…

“As long as you realize, though, that Mrs. Shields IS one HUNDRED years old.”

I conclude this post with an addendum:

I wrote this post with great hesitation as I worry that it maybe misconstrued in ANY way to imply that Mrs. Shields is anything but the wonderful, young, energetic kindergarten teacher that she is.  This time last year I worried incessantly about Toby’s transition to kindergarten and all of my fears were instantaneously relieved the moment I laid eyes on the great Mrs. Shields.  She not only captivated Toby’s heart and respect but reminded me of my own wonderful kindergarten teachers.  I couldn’t have asked for anyone better to transition my precious boy into his school years and will be forever grateful to her for being that reassuring link.  And just for the record; although she may convey hundreds of years worth of wisdom to her students, to me she has done nothing but remind me that we are never too young at heart to love and learn from these precious years.

We all thank you, Mrs. Shields, no matter how old you are, for a wonderful first year at St. Mary’s!

Father's Day Confessions

I was my mother’s kid.  Dad had agreed the way anyone would eventually agree when they found out their girlfriend was 6 months pregnant; it was a moot point.  I was inevitably coming and he agreed to deal with it.

My dad already HAD 4 children, the last 3 of which were also girls.  So me being the last one, ALSO a girl, and having the athletic talents of my mother (!) I was readily handed over to my mother.  I was her child.

A lot changed however, as I grew up.  I don’t know if it was gradual or if it was that sudden smack-you-in-the-face attack of love your offspring afflict you with the minute you meet them, but somewhere between my entry into the world and the age at which I can clearly remember complicated stuff like whether or not one of my parents likes me, I know my dad loved me.  In fact, he even TOLD me he loved me.

 ONCE. 

I remember that day clearly because it was the day I finally got kicked off the basketball team.

I say finally because I had just barely scraped through in grade’s 6-9.  Each year my abysmal basketball skills coupled with my neurotic performance anxiety meant that I came closer and closer to being cut.  And each summer, in preparation for the upcoming season, I would set out to practice on my own over and over again while dad watched in futile helplessness as he shook his head and cursed my mother for giving me her athletic skills.

And then finally in grade 10 I got cut.

I won’t say it came as a shock to anyone, but to the 15-year-old version of myself it was pure heartbreak.

My dad greeted me in the front hall that night when I came home, sobbing, and met me with open arms.  He told me he loved me because he didn’t know what else to say.  And because he didn’t know what else to do. And because he did.

My dad has grown in leaps and bounds since his lone confession of love to me in grade 10.  The birth of my children, combined with the softness of age, has loosened his sentimentality and flow of emotion.  This weekend when Toby gave him his Father’s day Card my dad read it out loud and marveled at the pictures.  I could tell when my dad picked the card up that he was determined to love it.

Toby’s artistic talent equally parallels my athletic talent.   To an outside observer, my dad’s father’s day card was a mishmash of pieces of paper with green highlighter and chicken scratch marks with the lone words HAPPY FATHERS DAY PAPA scattered across the pages.  Try to absolve my dad of any embarrassment as he opened it, I asked Toby to EXPLAIN to my dad what all of the “drawings” represented.

Toby stared at me blankly.

My dad stared at the card blankly.

Then, in a moment of pure grand-parental-genius, and doing something I haven’t seen him do in over a decade, my dad decided to improvise.

“I see what this means, it’s a poem” my dad said as he began to recite, in perfect iambic pentameter, an impromptu poem Toby’s father’s day card had inspired in him.

We sat there all too stunned to grab an iphone to record it, but the gist of my dad’s poem went something like this,

“My dearest darling Papa, I love you love you love you and so do I my darling Toby so too do I love you.”

That was the first random sketch.  The other ones received similar poetic prophecies of love.  Toby sat there with a huge grin on his face and listened attentively,

“Yes, Papa, that’s EXACTLY what I was trying to write.”

It wasn’t long before Mia handed him HER card (a similar array of mishmash –feathers, stickers and felt letters stuck to a piece of construction paper) and my dad belted out yet another poetic ode to his love of her.

Seeing my dad with my kids is seeing a tangible form of love.  He is content just to sit and watch them play, make a mess of themselves over dinner, or run around in circles.  Whatever activity they are engaged in – be it mischief or messiness, his happiest time is sitting there watching them.

I may have been my mother’s kid.  I may have grown of up deprived of nightly “I love you’s” and sappy father-daughter moments.  But I have always known the truth and watching it manifest now in the love between my kids and my dad is a gift I will always cherish.

Happy father’s day, dad…today and always. 

Typical bonding with the grandkids - mini cupcakes on paper plates and air hockey.  Small things that made everyone's day!!!