Bird Invasion

I have discussed our mice problem, our raccoon invasion and recently our chipmunk escapade, but I don't think I have detailed the attack of the birds yet. One morning during the summer I am sitting at the computer and I notice out of the corner of my eye something fly across the room. That wasn't right and I jumped to my feet. There, flapping in the window sill was a starling. It had to have come down the chimney, because there was a trail of soot in its wake. 

My first reaction is to scream for the kids - I have no issue with mice or spiders but hate birds. I would like to say that all my little darlings came running to my aid, but instead I got a chorus of "What?'s" from various places around the house. "Get down here! Now!" I screech. The only response this time is a loud discussion, while they try and determine who I am calling for.  Bunch of useless tits. 

Obviously I am going to have to deal with this myself, and I struggle to climb on the back of the sofa, precariously balanced between the arm rest and a side table and make a grab for the bird. This is going to be more difficult than I anticipated as it flies over my head and into the next window, swearing I climb down and chase after it. I might add, that despite the commotion, none of my children have bothered to come down and check on by well being.

With puma like stealth I lunge and this time my attempt is successful, and with the bird clutched tightly in hand, I clamber back down. Now at this point,  I could either open the window, toss the starling out into the bush and say Bye-Bye Birdie. Alternatively I could summon my offspring and show them what I had. One reason I have so much material for these blogs is because I am an idiot. I can never leave well enough alone.

As I head up the stairs from the basement, I summon my children, and this time they are more forthcoming and crowd around to see the now petrified bird. I opened my fingers  slightly so the kids could get a closer look, and sure enough it made a bid for freedom and flew right out of my hands. When will I ever learn ?

It took flight through the house and dove behind the buffet in the dining room. Now this is by far the heaviest piece of furniture in the house, well over ten feet long, solid wood and filled with china. This would not be moved easily. Fortunately Zach was over, so we were able to drag it out from the wall far enough to poke at the intruder with a long stick. But it obviously wasn't far enough, because as soon as the bird was prodded to within my reach, I lunged ... and discovered I was firmly wedged. This caused great hilarity among my children, who quite honestly until this point have been worse than useless. 

The damn bird has taken the opportunity during this commotion,to take off again and is flapping at the windows in the sun-room. I drag Zach in with me to move furniture and slam the French Doors shut behind us. It took a few minutes, with the furniture overturned in the middle of the room while I scrabbled on my hands and knees. The whole time, my bastard offspring, with their faces glued to the windows found this uproariously amusing. 

When I finally caught it again, I wasn't taking any chances. Gripped firmly in both hands I exited the house and set the bird free. When my husband arrived home that evening, I ask him to go up on the roof and check the chimney cap. True to form he refuses, arguing that we've been in the house 20 years and this is the only time a bird has come down the chimney. Not only do I like to get the last word, I also have to be right. Two days later another bird took a dive down the chimney, and this time Rob was home to deal with it. I would like to say I used great restraint and resisted telling him "I told you so", but everyone knows I'd be lying. 

I have to add here, that when I tried to read this post to my husband, I couldn't get passed the "..with puma like stealth.." comment, without his loud maniacal laughter.  According to him, "puma" and "stealth" are not words that immediately jump to mind when describing my actions. However it would appear that getting wedged behind the buffet is perfectly normal.

Beaten But Not Down

I have to feel sorry for my son. Last week I received a call from his teacher, to inform me that Grady had bumped his head - on another child - and had a big lump on his forehead, but he was refusing to ice it. It didn't seem too bad and she promised me she'd keep an eye on him. If he started acting or talking strangely she told me she would call me back. I had to intervene at this point, explaining that as talking and acting strangely was something Grady did on a regular basis, it would require something much more dire before I hastened to his side.

Today I received another call, this time Grady had tripped in the playground and scraped his face, he had walked in to the classroom supposedly (as Grady told it later) covered in blood. Again, I ascertained that there wasn't any serious harm, and he would be able to make it through the rest of the day.

It was this evening that he told me of his interaction with the other teachers. As some of them follow this blog, I will withhold names, but they know who they are ! The first teacher he encountered, gasped and asked him what happened. He explained, only to have her reply "Did Sid push you?".  A little while later another teacher inquired as to what happened to his face, again he explained and she responded with "Did Sid have anything to do with it?".  Finally he had to go to a neighboring classroom to fetch something  only to have that teacher take one look at his face and immediately ask "What did Sid do to you this time?" . As he was telling this tale -as only Grady can - I was laughing and expressing sympathy for Sid who has obviously developed a certain - and not undeserved reputation - around the school. Grady was not impressed and turned to me grumpily, "Never mind Sid" he complained, "How do you think I feel ? All those teachers assumed I got beaten up by my little sister!".  

He does have a valid argument.

What Are they Teaching In School ?

It always makes me nervous when I pick up my children from school and one or both of their teachers make a beeline for the van. It is even more unnerving when three teachers come to speak to me, especially when I only have two children in the school.

Last Thursday (see its that day again!) was no exception, other than the fact it was Rob picking up the kids that day. Grady's teacher catches him first and relates a story. The classroom was exceptionally warm, and Grady approached his teacher, mopping his brow and complaining of the heat. His actual comment was "I'm so hot, I feel like I'm getting decapitated".  Not sure what punishment they are meting out in schools nowadays, but it sounds pretty harsh. 

But wait! There's more! In Sid's class they had a guest speaker and the topic they were covering was Government. The speaker asked the questions and the children were supposed to buzz in. It sounds like everything was moving along smoothly until they were asked what system of government presided the US. At Grade 4 level ? Really ? The response he was looking for was "Republican", but no one had the answer. He tried a series of clues "Arrrrrrre you sure you don't know the answer?" "Arrrrrrre you able to think of the answer?" and so on, always emphasizing the "r's". Sidney finally clues in and excitedly buzzes in her answer "Pirates", she yells gleefully. I understand at that point, the teacher lost it.

How It All Began

My friend Laurie asked me the other day how I got into blogging. It started innocently enough when I would send Rob an email and describe how "My Day So Far", was going with one or more of the kids at home. These emails were then passed around his office, and after a few years of his co-workers suggesting I write a blog, I decided to give it a try.

Today I go back to the roots, as I had a morning typical of those earlier days. I'm not sure really at what point it started going off the rails, just that it did. Lindsay and Sid got into a fight over who carries down the dirty laundry. They weren't arguing because neither wanted to do it, quite the opposite, they both requested the chore. Unfortunately the fight escalated, and the inevitable happened, they got so wrapped up with their argument, neither one completed the task. 

Grady meanwhile had been listening to some old music I was playing in the van and had started singing over and over again one particular line from the 70's song "Billy Don't Be A Hero".  I did suggest that he might want to pick another song if he plans on singing at school (which I'm told he does in class), because I'm quite sure that continuously belting out a rendition of "Come back and make me your wife" is guaranteed to get him stuffed in a locker. He is a sweetheart but a bit of a slow learner. 

Meanwhile he did something to piss Sidney off, I don't know what and it certainly doesn't take much. In fact, it could even have been his singing, because god knows I was ready to pierce my eardrums with a pointy stick. She takes retribution by kicking him, and promptly earns herself a time out - which was a bit stupid on my part, because sitting on the stairs at 8:15 is hardly conducive to her getting ready for school. Obviously Grady isn't the only slow learner in the house. I figured, give her 5 minutes tops and we should still be OK for time. 

However, I wasn't ready for the blood curdling scream that came next, nor her frantic flight down the stairs. I run up from the basement, only to find her cowering - and screaming - as Grady advances menacingly, brandishing one of my bras. Are you kidding me? What did I do to deserve this ? I snatch back my garment, slap Grady upside the head and tell Sid to get dressed. Grady, who would appear to have woken up with a death wish follows Sid into her room, where upon she retaliates by spritzing him with one of Lindsay's perfumes. It is not the first, nor I'm sure will it be the last time, that Grady goes to school smelling like a Texas whorehouse.  

So there you have it, "My Day So Far". 

A Long Life, Lived.

Today would have been my grandmother's birthday. Gladys Ellen Manse was born in 1893, family lore has it that her mother was a white witch and a physic. My grandmother often commented on her mother's many premonitions, but I do not recall her ever mentioning her father and I never thought to ask why. She lived through two world wars, the death of her brother and fiance (in the trenches during WWI), and outlived both her children (my mother and uncle). She was one of the first women to join the Women's Royal Air Force in 1918, working in communications at the ministry in London. Prior to that she worked in "service", as an under stairs or scullery maid. Think "Downton Abbey" but a little less glamorous. 

That era had a profound impact on the rest of her life. Although she ended marrying a family friend, she never truly got over the tragic loss of her fiance or her brother, Eric. She christened her son after her brother, but then could never bring herself to use his name, and forever after she called him simply "Boy". 

After WW1, her husband became a gamekeeper for a titled family, and they lived in a small cottage on the grounds. Legend had it that the family treasure was buried during the time of the English Civil War, to prevent Cromwell and his Round-heads from stealing it. Summers were spent in Scotland, at the family's highland estate.  My grandmother rarely talked about her life, most of this I learned from my mother.

Her service years formed her character as well, and she had no time for airs and graces. She moved in with us after her husband's premature death, well before I was born. She spent her life in the kitchen, and refused to eat with the rest of the family in the dining room, because she felt it was "above her station".  There was only a small table in the kitchen, so meal after meal she sat by herself.  No amount of cajoling could coax her to change her mind, and only when her brother or son visited and occasionally at Christmas, did she allow herself the luxury of eating in the dining room.  There was many a time I remember my poor embarrassed mother explaining to horrified guests that the little old lady huddled alone in the kitchen, was honestly there by choice. 

My grandmother was one stubborn lady. Barely clearing 5 feet in height, with a diminutive frame, she was a powerhouse. A force to be reckoned with. She called a spade a f***ing shovel, and didn't back down for anyone. She would take an instant like or dislike to a person, there was no rhyme or reason but once her mind was set, there was no turning back. God forbid she would perceive a slight where none was intended, you didn't get second chance with her.  I always remember a close friend Joanne, growing up. She was overdue a hair cut, and my grandmother told her one day she looked like a sheepdog and never spoke to her again. Mortified doesn't begin to explain how I spent my teen years. We had a rambling old house with several entrances, so I learned quickly to sneak my friends in a little used door, in order to avoid her wrath.

The person who argued with her most of course was me. My sisters, much older had long left home, and I never knew when to shut up, so our battles were many and frequent. I soon realised that complaining to my parents about the unfairness of it all, would entail a second punishment (or even third, if I was stupid enough to pursue it) , for which ever transgression I had enacted that day . She kept a hazel twig by the kitchen door, and I had that swished across the back of my knees many a time as I tried to escape after an argument. She had bloody good aim, and I was forced to establish a nifty two-step as I skipped through that door. 

As she aged she had trouble sleeping and after the pint of beer she drank every night, failed to bring on slumber, her doctor recommended a wee drop of Scotch before bed to help her sleep. The emphasis was on "wee", however once my grandmother was given the go ahead to drink Whiskey, "For medicinal purposes only" as she informed everyone, there was no stopping her. The wee drop quickly progressed to half a tumbler. She always removed her spectacles before she poured it in the glass, and because she couldn't see, would tip in extra for good measure. I'd find her the next morning, hunched over the kitchen table, the Daily Telegraph crossword unfinished, and she with her head in her hands bemoaning a headache - headache be damned, that was a hangover!

The final straw came after she fell down the stairs one night in a drunken stupor, which I think was probably what saved her as well, because at 88 I don't know how she wasn't badly hurt. My father and I took it upon ourselves to to water down her scotch. It didn't take her long to catch on to this, and she just upped her intake. After she died in her 92nd year, my father found scotch bottles hidden around her bedroom. That was when we learned that a family friend who used to take her shopping each week, stopped off so she could buy her liquor. She told the friend it was for my father. We had no idea.  

My grandmother was a strong influence in my life.  She didn't like the name I had been given - actually Wendy - she thought it was to "highfaluting", and insisted on calling me Kelly, my middle name.  She also taught me how to read and write it, and eventually my parents gave in, and I became Kelly.  Her life was far from easy, and it is only with age, that I appreciate how much she overcame. A truly remarkable woman.

 

Sid's Blog

I'm sure some days without Sid I wouldn't have a blog. As she is getting ready for school this morning, I notice that she is spending a long time standing in front of the full length mirror at the end of the hall. She stands sideways, checking out her profile, then turns and checks again. This goes on for a few minutes while she appraises her reflection. 

Curious, I finally ask her what she is doing. "It's official" she replies. "I don't have a best side, they are both good".  WTF ? She is nine years old. Best side ? I have absolutely no idea where she gets it from.

The Big Five-Oh.

I was rather hoping to slide into obscurity this week, as the auspicious occasion of my 50th birthday loomed - on a Thursday no less ! - but my husband had other ideas and has been littering Facebook with pictures from my past - and none of them flattering, so it has been difficult, if not impossible to escape reality.  He will pay dearly for this betrayal. 

This has provided me with an opportunity to reflect and look back on the past half century - ugh. I would like to say I have learned a lot, but anybody who reads my blog knows that isn't true.

Thirty five years ago, I had but one aim and that was to join the Royal Navy as a Communications Officer. I was going to travel the world, marriage and children were the furthest thing from my mind.  I had worked hard towards that goal, taking several courses at different naval bases in the UK, competing in the brutal Ten Tors challenge on Dartmoor and even suffered the pain and indignity of having my front tooth knocked out by the muzzle of a rifle on a particularly hazardous exercise. I didn't fare much better on water, I couldn't swim (still can't)  which was a particular impediment when we went sailing, especially before life jackets became mandatory. I still recall one spectacular evening in Portsmouth Harbour, where I sailed our four person dinghy right into the side of the Royal Yacht. It was strongly suggested that I not return.

I'm not sure how or when I made the decision to put the Naval career on the back burner and emigrate to Canada as a nanny. I didn't even like children, and some days I still don't. I had first met Rob at the age of fourteen when I was here on vacation, but I was nineteen before I took up with him again and we were married two years later.  Those two intervening years I spent as a nanny. Over 800 days of indentured servitude, an experience I intended never to repeat. One family I lived with was particular violent, and I escaped each weekend to spend two days at my sister's house, dreading each Sunday evening when I had to return. It was several years before I could relax on a Sunday night, without that sinking feeling of apprehension for the next day. Unfortunately I was at the whim of Immigration, and to leave my employment - regardless of the circumstances - would earn me a one way ticket back to England. I can still remember the euphoria when I walked away from the house for the last time. I would never allow myself to be in that position now, but I was much younger then, and with age comes, maybe not wisdom, but certainly a better sense of self preservation. 

So here I am now. I swapped my dreams of becoming a Naval Officer for a career in Human Resources followed by motherhood. Probably a better choice, on account of that not being to swim thing. After thirty years, I still miss England, there is a part of me that would like to go back, but I know I made the right choice to stay here, and on Thursday when I'm fighting with Sid to put on her shoes, and cleaning up cat barf, I will take a moment to congratulate myself for surviving fifty years.

 

Open Wide

So I had a dentist appointment this morning, just a routine check-up and cleaning. Everything was going well until I heard a voice say "Are you alright ? Dear, are you alright?".  At which point I realised I had fallen asleep and started to snore. I'm not sure how that is even possible with three different utensils stuck in my mouth, but I managed it. I can't say it was one of my finest moments.

I might have got away with just a pitying glance if I hadn't compounded that faux pas with another. I had been tilted in the chair with my head way below my feet, and after the hygienist brought me upright,  I stood up, promptly got dizzy and after I whacked my head on the lamp, I walked straight into the wall. She probably thought I was drunk. It wasn't even the usual hygienist, so for all she knows that is normal behaviour for me.

Does It Get Better With Age ?

As any reader of my blog knows, I have three children - 16, 11 and 9. Ever the optimist I keep hoping that as they age their behavior will improve. You would think that at 16, Lindsay who is old enough to drive, and in 18 months legally an adult would behave in a manner befitting of her age, but you would be wrong. 

Take yesterday afternoon for instance, Lindsay and Sid get into a name calling argument over who would put away Sid's shoes. Lindsay was offering to do it for her and Sid resisted. They reach a stalemate, neither is giving in, both have a fistful of each shoe and they are in a tug of war. Incredulously I am in the kitchen listening to the fight escalate, until finally I can stand it no longer and tell them in a language they both understand to drop the effing shoes before I ram them up their arses, or words to that effect. They had definitely lost the plot. Honestly I wanted to knock their heads together, and if Lindsay wasn't almost as tall as me, I probably would have.

Everyone is familiar with the "Terrible Twos", which technically with my children started almost as soon as they each turned one. I remember an old boss of mine once told me that the "Twos" were nothing it was the "Fuck You Fours" you really had to watch out for. I had never heard my boss swear before, so that comment stuck with me, and by God he was right.

But how do you explain or describe those years between eight & ten ?  Grady who is an absolute sweetheart now, and probably the most empathetic of my children, still almost met his maker at my hand on several occasions at that stage of his development. He would deliberately bait his sisters, (actually he still does, he has yet to learn that lesson), the answer to any & every request was a resounding "No", every statement was contradicted and he would fly into a rage without the slightest provocation. He threatened to leave home more times than I can count, until I finally gave him $20 and offered to take him to the train station. That stopped him in his tracks - no pun intended.

Sid is at that stage now, as evidenced by the shoe fight yesterday. Why couldn't she have just let Lindsay put away her shoes for her ?  What is wrong with the child ?. Unfortunately as my husband persists in pointing out to me time and time again, Sid is a mini-me. She definitely has my temper, and not a day goes by without at least one WTF ? moment.

When Sid was at the "Fuck You Fours" stage, she was a little termagant, (which is also how my father was known to have described me). I remember one particular day that stood out when she decided that she didn't like any of her underwear. Screaming, slamming doors,  tears (and that was just me), no matter what, she found a problem with each and every pair.  I'd pull them on her, she'd pull them off and hurl them across the room. We were already late for school, so I gave her an ultimatum, pick a pair or go commando, because if she didn't, the third option I was ready to utilise was to leave her by the side of a deserted road, with or without underwear, I didn't really care at that point.  I think she chose commando.

Five years on and not much has changed. She is has gotten over her underwear aversion, I hasten to add, but this morning it was the shoes again. She has been adamant that she get shoes with laces, but she refuses to learn how to tie them.  Grady was trying to help her, but she wanted none of it. I finally sat her down and tied them up - too loose. Undid them and started again - too tight this time. Tough shit, I'm out of patience.  The next thing I see is a shoe flying across the living room. I hate to admit it, but that girl has a bloody good arm. Enough already, she is given 30 seconds to put on her shoes or she goes to school in her socks. Grady isn't helping by hovering on the sidelines, alternating taunts between "You're in trouble" and "I told you so". See above re; baiting his sister!  He is lucky the second shoe didn't nail him in the head.  

My children know that I carry out my threats, or as I prefer to call them, "consequences", so Sid decided to avoid the "going to school in socks" option and reluctantly donned her shoes.  She did however make it very apparent she was not happy, as evidenced by the slamming of the front door and the slow stomp down the path. If I hadn't caught on by then as to how she felt about me, the unyielding death glare that I glimpsed in the in the rear view mirror as we drove to school was a pretty good clue. 

This post goes out to my friend Shari, who is experiencing her own version of the F/U Fours. Best of luck with that !  

Sid Strikes Again

All the power to my youngest daughter, because without her I don't think I'd have much of a blog

Sid had been nagging - an exceptional ability she shares with her siblings - for new running shoes. I was hesitant as she had only her "old" pair, for four months.  Rob finally relented one weekend and took her shopping - for the record I categorically refuse to shop with my children - and she came home with a brand spanking new pair of white runners. That was mistake #1.

Three days later, despite our insistence not too, she wore the new shoes up to the very muddy barn. Mistake #2. It is pretty obvious what happened next, white shoes no more.  When we get home I stopped her as she was just about to wash them in my kitchen sink. Surprisingly, she didn't fathom my extreme revulsion at this act. 

The next day, it was pouring with rain, and as we sat at the gas (petrol) station.  I glanced over, only to see Sid happily holding a shoe out of her open window. Consequently, her arm, her shoe and the inside of my van were all getting drenched. I uttered the question I always seem to be asking of my children, "What the hell are you doing ?"  She looked at me, rolled her eyes and replied in a very condescending tone, "What does it look like I'm doing ? I'm cleaning my shoe."

"Actually.." I replied, "...you aren't cleaning anything, all you are doing is getting everything soaked.  Why not use the wet wipes I keep in the van?"  A little light bulb clicks on and by the time we reach school, her shoes are again clean and the floor is covered in grotty wet wipes.

I have to wonder if she isn't the product of a shallow gene pool. I remember during one of my pregnancies I had to go for an ultrasound and a bigoted technician expressed relief that my husband was Canadian and not British "Because of all the inbreeding that goes on in England". Yes really! I tore a strip off her then, but now I've got to wonder, at least where my children are concerned, if she wasn't on to something.

Critter Explosion

A friend asked me the other day what our current animal count was. Sadly - although that sentiment does depend on who you talk to - all the hamsters plus two rabbits have gone, and the jird is in the freezer. Said friend also thought all this time that "jird" was a typo, and it that it was actually a bird I was referring to. We still have the remaining 4 rabbits, as well as 4 cats, 1 dog, 1 horse and the frogs - which I think must be immortal, because they have long exceeded their lifespan, and the fish. We also have the addition of a pregnant guinea pig.

Grady brought home the class guinea pig - who it would appear as of next week or so, we have adopted permanently, due to allergies in the classroom - which is also how we ended up with the frogs, go figure - earlier this year, and my husband in a weak moment mused allowed that maybe we should get a guinea pig or maybe two. I don't know what possessed him to suggest that, but once those words were uttered aloud, there was no going back.

We are on a first name basis with the owner of the local pet store, and when we purchased our 'pig, he offered to provide us with a loaner stud guinea pig (I kid you not), because the children thought what fun it would be to raise a baby 'pig. They had struck out with kittens and puppies, so I guess guinea pigs were the next best option. Amazingly my husband actually agreed to this and so we trot off home with two horny guinea pigs. 

Sid was definitely the most fascinated with all the goings on. There was a little house in the cage, and thank god all the activity took place in there, because it was bad enough that Sid would announce loudly, "They're doing it again" each time both 'pigs disappeared into the shelter. At first Rob felt sorry for the stud 'pig, because he didn't seem to be getting any action, but it wasn't long before his sympathy dried up, and petty jealousy set in, as the male would sit, day after day basking in the afterglow. All he was missing was a cigarette. 

So, two months later we await the birth.  Apparently the rate of miscarriage and still births are quite high in guinea pigs - why no one told us that before we started this I don't know, so the excitement is somewhat tempered by trepidation. we shall just have to wait and see.

Mice Wars

Rob was visiting our neighbour the other day and came back armed with a mouse trap. Not any old mouse trap, but a state of the art "Humane Trap".  A shame really, because I am much more partial to the kind which requires Rob to set the bait, while we sit in the next room and silently count down to the point where it snaps his fingers, and then snicker quietly as he swears and howls with pain and then repeats the process. It never gets old. 

Anyway, our war on the mice continues. We were sitting in the basement the other evening, all else was quiet except for the party that was being thrown in between the ceiling and the upstairs floor. It was one hell of a racket, I'm not sure how many mice were up there, but they sure sounded like they were having fun. I was half expecting mini balloons and confetti to come drifting down through the gaps in the wood plank ceiling.  

Rob decided it was time to fight back, hence the latest mouse trap.  Please excuse me while I don't get too excited about this. He of little memory seems to have clear forgotten about our first disastrous episode with the humane (read useless) trap. This is not to be confused with my last posted blog on mouse catching - which I think was actually a while ago - which was another episode entirely.  

Anyway, old house, plaster walls and mice will often get trapped within them, die and then stink up the place for two weeks. Not too much you can do about it until I had the brilliant idea of cutting a hole in the wall and thus allowing the mouse to exit the wall into the said trap. You'll notice my ideas are always brilliant, his, not so much. 

That was the grand plan, but as so often happens in our house, the mouse - or should I say mice - had other ideas, because after the hole was cut in the wall and the trap positioned in front of it, not one, not two but three mice gaily trooped straight through the trap and into the kitchen. It was like a Macey's freaking parade. 

The cats - count them we have four - are nowhere to be seen. So it is up to me to take care of the mouse round up, as I frantically throw bowls and buckets around the room in a desperate attempt to trap the little rodent bastards beneath the containers. You may well ask where my husband is during this chaos ? He was in the next room of course, on top of a chair ineffectively calling out directions. If over the quarter century that we have been married, we ever came close to divorce, that evening would have been it. 

Surprisingly, I did manage to capture two of the offenders, and the cats eventually took care of the third. I'm not sure exactly what Rob plans on doing with this latest trap, but rest assured, what ever it is, he is doing it on his own. 

Authors Note: Rob of course remembers this episode differently. He insists he wasn't on top of a chair. Whatever. 

How To Carpool

I have in the past had the dubious honour of transporting members of Lindsay's swim team back and forth, and as the season starts up again, I must put into practice some of the pointers I learned last year on how to successfully carpool. 

1)  Don't communicate with your teen in any way, shape or form, lest you be mistaken for their parent ! In fact it's better if you can pretend you are total strangers.

2)  As such, you shouldn't remind her to use the bathroom before she gets in the pool.  This is a major faux pas, as evidenced by the way the van door was vehemently slammed behind her.

3)  Should one of the other kids try and make conversation with you, it's best if you pretend you're either hard of hearing or can't speak English or both, on account of the fact you may will say something to embarrass your offspring.

4)  Apparently blaring the radio to discourage conversation is taboo as well.  Any music you enjoy will be considered cringe worthy by the young.  Don't assume that pretending to listen to a "Hip" radio station is the answer, apparently that's akin to a comb-over ! It's probably best that you don't use language like "Hip" either.

6) Teens in hoodies, faces cast down as they text in total oblivion, all look alike to me. So if you do speak to one, resist the urge to use their name, because it's probably the wrong one. This social blunder is guaranteed to net you a withering look.

If you can carry all this off, with a happy smile on your face, you are well to your way to a successful carpool. I should add, that all the kids I have carpooled have been very polite, and had it been allowed, it would have been nice to get to know them better.

My Children, The Athletes.

I wouldn't say that my son excels at sports, but he certainly does try his best. He was on an inter school baseball team one term, and after his first game he came home all excited. "Our team didn't win ..." he said beaming, "... but I scored a goal". That's right a goal, in baseball. That there is maybe the first clue as to why they didn't win.

If that wasn't proof enough, Grady & Sid were out in the garden playing "baseball" again, and each time he hit the ball (which wasn't often as his sister seemed to be pitching more to the nearby tree than at him) he yells "Fore".  

His early attempts at soccer were nothing to write home about either, sitting in goal, with his back to the pitch, making daisy chains. His father was so proud. However not nearly as proud as we were of Sid, who after running halfway down the pitch after the ball, screeches to a halt, inserts a finger up her nose and proceeds to regale the onlookers with the results.  In their defense, they were a lot younger then. It just took us a while longer than most to come to terms with the fact there would be no athletic scholarships in our childrens' future. 

To be fair Grady is quite accomplished on skis, or more accurately on only one ski, as he always seems to lose the other one as he races down the hill. I still remember Lindsay's early attempts at skiing. One particular morning as Rob was capturing her exploits on film, Lindsay hurtled down the slope and forgot how to stop. Consequently, her momentum carried her back up a small hill, over the barrier and across the path, only coming to a stop when she plowed into her father. It was a case of objects in the camera are closer than they appear !

Lest We Forget

         In honour of Remembrance Day, and the men and women who have served and continue to serve their countries, I offer up a different blog today. My father was a tank commander in the 10th Hussars during WW2. This is an extract from his account of that time.

 

        ......... We formed part of a large convoy of troop carriers and merchant ships, escorted by frigates and destroyers. We had to head out to the mid-Atlantic to avoid land-based bombers and enemy battleships, because France was now home for German planes. We could not use the shorter route through the Mediterranean Sea for the same reason, and Italian submarines. The journey was 12000 miles to Port Suez on the Red Sea. The weather was pleasant and duties few. On deck, we watched dolphins and flying fish; a new experience for most of us, as was seasickness. The first 2 or 3 days were wretched. I was in the bottom of the ship, close to the propeller shaft, expecting every night for an enemy torpedo to finish us off.

           The voyage was uneventful and we rounded the Cape of Good Hope and stopped at Durban, South Africa. We had a few days ashore and were adopted by the townsfolk, taken to tea and the cinema, and shown the sights. Our next stop was Port Said after travelling through the Suez Canal, where we took a train to a camp near Cairo. The tank drivers had to go back to Suez to collect the tanks, which arrived on a merchant ship that had docked at Aden. We were allowed day trips to Cairo and I visited the pyramids.

          At this time, the Germans were in retreat over 400 miles away across the Western Desert at Cyrenaica, so we had a long journey. The tanks were loaded onto transporters because a tank is a heavy consumer of fuel, 1 or 2 miles to the gallon. We were part of a very large contingent of artillery and anti-tank units. With the other units, there would be over 100 tanks. Orders came to engage the enemy. Our little 2-pounders were ineffective beyond 400 yards and our shells just bounced off the enemy tanks, so we had to get closer to the Germans before we could attack. They could pick us off at 1000 yards with their heavier guns. All we could do was lay down a curtain of smoke to confuse the enemy gunners.

         As with the fiasco with the expeditionary force in France, (Dunkirk) the result of our engagement was inevitable. Tank after tank was disabled or set on fire. In my squadron alone, we ended the day with 10 tanks out of 12 lost. I was the lucky driver of one of the 2 tanks that survived the battle. My view was restricted to a small periscope with no lateral vision. What with the crack of the 2-pounder and the rattle of the machine gun, communication was not easy. How we got out of it unscathed I do not know. Those in the military who were responsible for arming the tank with such a poor gun have much to answer for. Several officers and many other ranks were killed, wounded, or taken prisoner.

         Other units had suffered equally as badly and when orders were issued to withdraw, the regiment could only muster 7 tanks out of an original 40 in working order. We retreated some 50 miles and the enemy was willing to let us go; they had their own wounds to lick. We had learned a bitter lesson for the second time. Without a better gun, we had no chance of winning. I was now a sergeant and tank commander.  

          The enemy was retreating westward and we were advancing slowly but not engaging, so there was a lull in fighting. An open truck would turn up with a load of bread, full of sand but a welcome relief from army biscuits. Each tank was a kind of island, with 4 men living in close proximity, all orders by wireless. My gunner was a regular soldier, while the driver and wireless operator were from civilian life, like myself. We got on well together. One day a water tanker turned up and the driver said, “Want to take a bath?” We scooped a hole in the sand, lined it with the tank’s tarpaulin, and had a make-shift “garden pool.” I carried a small vest-pocket camera and took a snap of my crew disporting in the water like a bunch of children. I had many snaps, taken at different times, ready for developing but all my kit disappeared when I was rushed to hospital at El Alamein.

            I developed a sore throat. “Nothing to worry about,” said the medical officer, “Go back to your tank and gargle with salt water.” I did as I was told and shortly after collapsed. This time, the MO realized his mistake and diagnosed diphtheria. I was rushed to Cairo at high speed, barely conscious. I still remember the nightmare ride. I was half conscious and delirious. I learned later from an orderly that two doctors argued over my fate. One said, “He’s gone beyond saving, let him die in peace.” The other said, “Give him a chance.” He won; I was given a massive dose of anti-toxin and left to nature. I was 25 years old........

           

Anything For A Quiet LIfe

I try so hard for a quiet (read boring) life, but the universe has other plans. Early this spring we discovered we had racoons having it off in our attic. We were awoken one night    by an almighty racket.  Squealing, growling, bumping - it was horrendous. This was going on above our heads, and I thought what ever it was, was going to fall right through the ceiling, as I clutched the bed covers, panic stricken. 

Rob determines the culprits are raccoons, (he raised one, so he should know).  At first we weren't sure if they were carrying out their antics on top of the roof or in the attic, so I sent Rob out to check.  He returned quickly, only to announce that he couldn't see anything. I asked him if he had taken a flashlight - he keeps about 6 beside his bed in preparation for the end of days - but he hadn't. Not quite sure how he expected to see anything without one, so I armed him with a high beam and sent him out again. I suppose I should be thankful that he had at least donned clothes, he has been known on occasion to dash out in the middle of the night - au naturel - to break up a cat fight. I can assure you, that hasn't done much to increase local property values. 

Much to my horror, we determined that the raccoons were inside the attic. The noise abated after a while, and by the time I got up, Rob had already been on the phone to pest control companies. The first guy he spoke to explained that it was mating season for raccoons & suggested the female had probably been hibernating all winter in our attic and the recent mild weather had coaxed her out. A male had probably followed her back and they'd done the deed, hence all the noise. That pissed Rob off even more, as he muttered something about the f***ing raccoon getting more action than he was.

As soon as it was daylight, Rob decided to venture up on the roof to see if he could find where the intruder had gained access. Appreciate if you will, Canada in spring, we were still in the grips of several inches of ice and snow. You're probably expecting my tale to continue with my intrepid husband sliding right off the roof - and to be truthful the kids and I did lay bets on the prospect (imagine the blogging opportunities !!), but unfortunately he made it back down safely. 

A day or so later, the guy from the pest control company came out and set up a spring loaded door, with the intent that the raccoon can leave the premises, but not return. Apparently it is a fool proof method - and it better be for $350 - but anyone who has followed this blog knows how well "fool proof" works in our house.

Thursday Came Early This Week

Before I get too far into this post, I am supposed to give title credit to Lindsay.

It always used to be Thursdays that I dreaded, but there must have been a disturbance in the force, a reversal of magnetic poles perhaps, because now it feels like every day is vying to be a Thursday.

This week it was Tuesday. I am in the shower when Lindsay comes in and announces she is off to school,. That can't be right, it is only 7:15, she doesn't usually leave for another half hour. It turns out she is meeting a teacher early because she has questions on an assignment. I tell her to wait 10 minutes and I would drive her. It was cold, dark and raining, motherhood dictated I didn't have much choice. 

Halfway up the road, she remembers her book is still on the kitchen table, so I turn around and back we go. I should mention I haven't had a coffee yet, so not in the best frame of mind. She gets her book, I drop her off at school and head home again. Grady meets me at the front door - never a good sign. "You've just missed dad" he tells me. "He called, he has a flat tire." Great, not much I can do but I call my husband and offer sympathy but little  else. 

As I am working on lunches I hear a noise coming from the front hall. I go to check and see Grady's rear end sticking out of the hall closet, items flying haphazardly over his shoulder. My all too usual refrain of "What the hell are you doing ?" is met with a muffled reply. He is looking for his rain jacket. I tell him it has to be in there, but he insists it isn't. 

The next thing I know he has gone off in search of a flashlight. WTF ? This is a small closet, not Journey To The Center Of The Earth.  Even with the added illumination there is no sign of the jacket. We start to rehash where he might have left it. I finally have to cave and call Rob, who is trying to deal with his flat tire and really doesn't give a flying you-know-what about the whereabouts of Grady's jacket. He did mention however that Lindsay had worn it to the farm on the infamous "Muddy Round-Up Day" a couple of weekends ago and an idea begins to form.  Uh oh, a frantic text to Zach, and sure enough, I had sent Grady's jacket back with Zach's clothes. After having accused Grady of leaving it somewhere, I was going to have to do some fancy footwork to back pedal out of that one. I make furtive arrangements with Zach to smuggle the missing jacket back into the house and persuade Grady to make do with an older jacket for now and then I turn my attention to Sid.

At this point I should mention, a single drop of coffee has yet to pass my lips, so I am getting more than a little surly. Sid & Grady both wear school uniforms and as such Sidney has multiple white shirts in her closet. This day she found fault with each one; too short, too long, too loose, too tight. Never mind that they were all identical. Finally through threat of grievous bodily harm, I convince her to keep one on and she heads down for breakfast. Too fucking bad she then spilled juice all down it and we had to start the painful process again. And this dear readers was all before 8:00 A.M.

The Life of Sid

I have often mentioned how I dread to think what my youngest daughter is going to say next and she never lets us down.

Last term her class went to the Royal Ontario Museum. She had been looking forward to this trip for weeks, so when she arrived home on the big day I was expecting her to be gushing about all the wonders she had seen, but she was strangely quiet & contemplative. 

Upon being asked about her favorite part of the museum, I was expecting to hear about dinosaurs or the Egypt gallery or even the gemstone display, but no, a big grin crossed her face as she sidled up to me and replied in a conspiratorial whisper "We saw naked male statues .... with all the parts!".  

I can only imagine how that conversation went with her teacher. 

Half A Donut

Okay, I know I just recently posted a blog on my experiences with the Tim's drive-thru but that was before my encounter today. 

I picked Lindsay up from swim practice and we stopped at Tim's to get her something to eat before work. This is not a Tim's location I frequent on a regular basis, and after today, that infrequency will probably drop to zero. 

We pull up to the order window and I ask for a steak & cheese sandwich, no onions , extra cheese and half the sauce (Lindsay is just a little particular). At first there is silence and then a voice - that can only be described as gormless - asks "What kind of sandwich?", so I slowly repeat the order. I had to do this a few times until we finally settle on the "No onions and extra cheese", but the disembodied voice is having great difficulty with my third request, "Half the sauce".  She insists on asking if I want "Half the salt?".  No matter how slowly, how clearly, and how loudly I ask for "Half the sauce" the response is the same. 

By now there is a long line up of cars behind us, and Lindsay is muttering darkly beside me until she finally bursts out "Oh for f***s sake, it's your accent."  She has quite the little potty mouth on her. She then leans across me and screeches "HALF THE SAUCE", at which point the response comes back, the voice clearly relieved she has finally figured it out "Oh, you want half Hot Sauce". "NO!" we scream back in unison, "Just half the regular sauce". 

Satisfied now that she knows what she is doing, I proceed with the rest of the order. "One powdered donut and a medium coffee, double double, please". Again there is silence, and then the voice comes back incredulously "You want half a donut?". WTF ? where the hell does Tim's find these rocket scientists. I look at Lindsay and we both burst out laughing, while she resorts to some rather spectacular name calling, I re-iterate that we want a powdered donut.  The choice is blueberry or raspberry, and Lindsay chooses the latter. 

Finally, after what seems to have taken forever, we move forward to the pick up window where we come face to face with the girl behind the voice. OMG, gormless was right.  The first thing she hands me is the donut - fortunately a whole one, but unfortunately blueberry not raspberry.  Next comes the sandwich, but as yet no coffee, so we wait. Another girl comes to the window, surprised to still see us sitting there, or maybe it was because I was banging my head repeatedly on the steering wheel. She asked us what we were waiting for. "The coffee" I reply, politely, feeling anything but, and off she goes. Another minute or two and the first girl comes back to the window again, obviously puzzled to see that we haven't moved on. "Are you waiting for your sandwich?" she asks helpfully. Would that be the same sandwich she handed us a few minutes before and Lindsay is now eating ? "No" I replied, making drinking gestures with my hand "We are waiting for the coffee". My sweet daughter at this point explodes with "Motherf*****". Like I said potty mouth, I was shocked.

We finally get the coffee, and are relieved to be on our way.  A few moments later as we are laughing as to what idiot would ask for half a donut, Lindsay turned to me and said "They put hot sauce on the second half of my sandwich".  Motherf*****.

Homework Blues

So here it is 8:15 on Friday morning, almost ready to walk out the door, when Sid sidles in the room and begins "Now don't get cross mummy..." and right away I start to feel my blood pressure rise, but maintaining an icy calm, I ask with some trepidation "What ?". This is accompanied by Grady's sing-song voice from the bathroom "You're in trouble".  He sounds positively gleeful, is it any wonder Sid pummels him as much as she does ?

It turns out Sid has a French assignment - 2 page dialogue - due that morning. She has had a week to work on it and had totally forgotten. Despite her request, that I not be, I am in fact livid. I had asked Sid several times this week if she had any homework, and the answer was always in the negative. When I point this out to her she gets all huffy and rejoins "You only asked me if I had homework, you didn't ask me if I had French homework, that's different."  Seriously, now it's my fault because I didn't list every freaking subject that she might possibly be doing ?

Why did it have to be French ? Any other subject I could do, but French? Even Grade 4 French, definitely not my forte. She hands me the dictionary and I start translating and dictating. The first line is "What's that?" OK, easy start, not too bad. Next line "It is bacon" OK, not sure where this is going. Try "That bacon is burnt let's get another slice".  WTF ? What kind of dialogue is this ? Why is she talking about bacon ?  What happened to "I see the cat. The cat is black. The cat is on the mat" - that I could handle, but "Lets get another slice of bacon ?" is way out of my league.

Lindsay has already left for school so time to tap into Grady's brain power, but he is only part way through his weekly dump (don't go there) so now we are engaged in a three way dialogue through the bathroom door.  Hard to hear at the best of times, but especially so when his sentences are punctuated with grunts. Probably not for the last time, I am regretting not paying more attention in high school French which I failed spectacularly with a "U", meaning my exam result was so poor it was ungraded. Not my finest hour. 

With the joint effort, we managed to complete the dialogue, although I'm sure if it makes any sense in either language !  

The Revenge Of The Drive-Thru

It did occur to me that if I can blog about Tims' drive-thrus, as I have done in the past, and more than once, I'm probably spending far too much time cruising through them. I desperately need a new hobby, but anyway here goes. 
 
Not all drive-thrus look alike. I'm sure this is a conspiracy on part of the Tims' Franchisees, to mess with your mind.  Play close attention to the little "Order Here" sign, because I can assure you if you don't notice it and drive gaily by, there's no going back.  Moreover, for that trip at least, you might as well find another Tim's to go to, because if you try again  at the same drive-thru they will laugh at you. The sad thing is, this has happened to me more than once, and damn it all, there's always been one of my little snitches in the vehicle with me.

On the other hand, I have also been known to pull up to the scrolling video advertisement and happily hold a one sided chat with a short metal pole, only to hear a little tinny voice summoning me from 2 cars lengths ahead. Don't try and pretend you were talking on your phone instead, all that gets you is a pitying look along with your coffee. 

Finally - and although technically this happened to me at Arbys not Tims, but the premise is the same - do not attempt to adjust your sunglasses. One day, as I ordered our food, I inadvertently made the mistake of moving my glasses to my head only to have them entangle firmly in my hair.  Despite a frenzied attempt by Lindsay to help liberate me from my shades, by the time I got to the pick up window, my hair was wildly disheveled and the frames hanging askew off one side of my head, still securely attached to a clump of hair.  I made a valiant attempt to pretend all of this was perfectly normal as I conversed with the employee at the window. A failure of epic proportions because the whole time she was staring in fascination at my head, while Lindsay convulsed in laughter. 

So if I can only save you a fraction of the embarrassment I have encountered, then my work here is done. I probably should mention that now Lindsay has her drivers licence, be prepared for a new generation of drama at the drive-thru.