The School Years

Dad's school years...

...In the main (junior) school, we were introduced to paper, notebooks, dip pens, and inkwells. Those dip pens were treacherous. Excessive pressure would cross the nib and make it useless. Nibs were expected to last a long time so breaking a nib was a crime. Too heavy a dip in the well and an overloaded pen made a blot that could not be eradicated as we could with the slate we’d left behind. Mistakes were recorded for all time and could not be hidden. Now that we were recording all our work, accuracy and neatness were all-important.

            Handwriting, spelling, and arithmetic (much mental) were daily exercises. Reading around the class (an activity that is now derided) took a whole lesson every week. It kept you awake and concentrating because you might be the next child called upon to continue the narrative. Woe betide the child whose attention had wandered and who could not continue when called upon. He spent his playtime writing lines.
 

            What did I learn in my years at Shedfield? Being a Church of England School meant frequent visits from the local vicar and, in the infants’ school, we had a short religious service to start the day. We learned how life began – we saw pictures of Adam and Eve with the serpent lurking in the grass. No Darwinian theory of evolution for us; that came later in the grammar school. We did not question how Noah made it to the North and South poles to round up polar bears and penguins. They were clearly shown entering the Ark, along with elephants and giraffes solemnly walking up the gang plank. The teacher backed up the vicar so it must be true. We did not question how one man’s lunch stretched to feed 5000. I suppose we swallowed all these myths as true. I have wondered since if the teacher and vicar really believed all those miracles they fed us or whether they were merely doing their duty as Christians.

           The teacher had to be a complete all-rounder. The day started with arithmetic; long division was especially tricky. The bell rang. Then it was history: Julius Caesar; King Henry and his bevy of wives; Oliver Cromwell – we had them all. The bell rang. Now it’s geography. Each classroom had a large wall map and sometimes a globe, “All that red is our Empire”. We learned to pinpoint countries, rivers, and towns. 

There was an emphasis on patriotism. The school had a tall flagpole. On special nationwide days, the flag was solemnly hoisted. A day known as Empire Day was most special. The whole school gathered around the pole, the flag was raised, the headmaster gave an address, we sang the National Anthem, and gave three cheers for the King. The headmaster allowed us to stage battles; I used to enter the fray with an old bayonet. Goodness knows what would have happened if I’d put out someone’s eye, or inflicted serious damage on the enemy.

           We played football during the midday break and there were few rules. While tackling an opposing player, I had the misfortune to knock him down and break his leg. Poor Henry, he was carried into school and the doctor was called. Rumours spread: Henry might die, Sidney broke Henry’s leg; Sidney is a killer, keep away from him. I was ostracised for days. Then Henry turned up at school with his leg in plaster to be the hero of the day. We became friends again.

The playground adjoined a large area of heather common land on which was a rudimentary golf course. Finding a lost ball was an event. At the other end of the common was a small sweetshop where a half penny (old money) would buy a bag of aniseed balls which our little group would share and we’d see who could get the reddest tongue.

There was a large wood next to the common and we would make primitive bows and fire silly little arrows at passing cars. That game came to an end when a motorist stopped his car and caught us. We were too scared to run. He took our names and must have then met with the local policeman. He caught up with us as we returned to school, gave us a good lecture, and said, “Tell your Dad to give you a good thrashing.” I did not do this! Had I done so Dad, humiliated that his son had been so naughty, would have well and truly thrashed me. He was generally easy going but to be involved with a policeman was unforgivable. I think on the whole, the school did not do so badly....

.... Reading this again, with fresh insight, I see now that my daughter Sid, christened of course for her grandfather, was more than aptly named.

 

How Times Have Changed

My father's story continued.. 

           There was, of course, no bathroom. When the house was built, a bathroom was considered a luxury, only indulged in by the rich. Even larger houses were built without one. The current opinion in those days was that immersing oneself in water in wintertime was tantamount to signing one’s death warrant. Our bath was a large galvanized iron tub, the size of a coffin that hung outside the house on a nail. Bathing was usually a Saturday occupation when everyone took turns, with much to and froing with buckets of hot water. The copper was lit, and the bath brought into the washhouse in warmer weather, where there was more privacy, or into the living room in front of the stove on cold days. A once a week bath was considered adequate.

            Sanitation was crude. The lavatory was in a small hut in the garden, about 10 or 20 meters from the house. It was primitive in the extreme: a wooden seat with two holes, one large for adults, and one small for children, with buckets underneath (using the large hole as a child was fraught with danger!). Those buckets had to be emptied weekly. This meant digging a large hole in the garden every Saturday into which the contents of the buckets were tipped. This was not a pleasant task but commonplace in the country where sewerage systems did not exist. When male members of the family were considered muscular enough, they had to take their turn in the operation. Toilet paper? A sheer waste of money! Newspaper did the job and cost tuppence a day. Each bedroom had its chamber pot and it was another job for mother to empty and clean these each morning.

            There were 3 bedrooms: two of reasonable size and one very small. The floors were covered with linoleum and were bitterly cold in winter. There was no bedroom heating at all. We went to bed, undressed to our shirt, and shivered ourselves into warmth. Pyjamas did not exist. We had a perfunctory wash in the scullery, with cold water, then got into bed as quickly as possible. 

To be continued...

My Sainted Father

My sainted father (and I say sainted because he raised four daughters, and I was clearly the most well behaved) would have had his 97th birthday on Friday, so in honour of him, I am dedicating some of my blogs this week to his story. He was a gifted writer, and after several entreaties, he agreed to document his life so that his grandchildren who did not have the opportunity to spend much time with him when he was alive, would have the chance to get to know him through his own words. 

My father, Sidney (the sixth of nine children) was born in 1917 during the First World War. His father worked in a "Reserved Occupation" and it was considered more important for him to continue his work in England, than fight in the trenches in France. So in his own words....

         .....My home was a very small, old cottage. When the cottage was built, it stood alone in a large empty area between Shedfield and Bishop’s Waltham. Shedfield had two shops; Bishop’s Waltham was our local shopping centre and boasted a whole street of shops, a flour mill, cinema (the cost of a Saturday morning movie was 3 pence); and the ruins of a bishops’ castle.

            The cottage was probably a woodman’s cottage and it was the oldest house in the area.  In solitary houses a well was obligatory, but before I was born a water main had been installed 50 yards away, and my father had a pipe laid to the house. At the end of the water-main pipe was a single tap that was installed in the washhouse. This was a small room attached to the end of the house. It contained a large copper boiler, fuelled by wood, to supply hot water for the weekly clothes wash and family baths. No daily showers or baths in those days.

            In the washhouse there was a large bench and scrubbing board, and a huge iron mangle through which the clothes were squeezed to remove surplus water; a poor substitute for a modern spin dryer. This mangle would never pass the safety standards of today. It had huge open draining wheels and two large wooden rollers.

            Mother was the washing machine. All clothing, such as shirts, socks, and so on, was worn for a week and it was all collected in the washhouse on Mondays, along with bedding. The copper boiler was lit early in the morning, and then Mother spent hours scrubbing and rubbing with a huge bar of yellow soap, soaking, mangling, and finally hanging all the clean washing on a long clothes line. A rainy Monday was a disaster, with wet clothes hanging everywhere indoors. Mother never stopped running on a Monday. She still had her daily housework to do, bringing in the coal and water, and preparing a cooked meal for the family after work.

            Mondays must have been days when Mother wished she had never married, but on my school holidays when she and I were alone together I would be in the wash house with her, filling the copper, tending the fire, and turning the mangle; I don’t think I ever heard her complain.....

To be continued.

Teachers Are People Too

You know you are in trouble when your son's teacher sidles up to you in the school parking lot and whispers conspiratorially "I have something for your blog!".

Last week the children had to present the speeches they had been working on to their classmates. Some of the children were naturally nervous and were concerned that they might make a mistake or flub some words. Their teacher patiently explained that even adults make mistakes and that she too occasionally uses the wrong word, upon which my son pipes up "But you use big words we don't understand so we don't know when you get them wrong".  He made a valid point.

Now Grady's speech was on Great Britain's Special Air Service and was relatively straight forward compared to Sid's, which she researched and composed by herself. I don't know what she was thinking, but here is an extract from her speech that she actually had memorized ...

The horse family preceded humans by 5 million years ...  The Hyacotherium is from the Oligene period, the Merychippus from the Miocene period, the Equues is from the Pleistocene period and the Pliohippus from the Plocene period.

Considering none of those words were in any of my spell-checks, I can only hope she had them recorded correctly. 

My thanks go out to Hanna Z. for her contribution to today's blog ! 

Hockey Fans

I have documented before, we are not a sporting family. Fair enough in my younger days I was good at running (probably a logical reason behind that, if I explored further), Lindsay is on her school swim team and Grady is willing - if not always able - to try his hand at anything. In fact he is currently sporting a black eye because he was nailed in the face with a tennis ball. Rob enjoys riding, as do the older two kids occasionally. You notice I haven't included Sid, because, well Sid is Sid. Team sports aren't really her thing.

I have explained this because you can imagine my surprise when I stumbled out of bed at some ungodly hour this morning, to discover my children were already up watching The Hockey Game. I love how in Canada it is always "The" Hockey Game, with the assumption that everyone and their brother knows "the" game in question.

Anyway "The" game today was Canada vs Switzerland (I think), Sidney & Grady were totally engrossed. They don't know a thing about Hockey, but they were riveted none the less. Sid calls out, "Canada has another goal", at which point even Rob took an interest. "Oh look," he exclaimed, "They just scored another one." I guess Sid must know more than I give her credit for, because she replied in a voice dripping in sarcasm "That's the action replay dad". Funny how her voice says "Dad" but her tone implies "Idiot".

Go Canada ! 

Post Script:  Rob insists he knew it was an action reply, and apparently I stand corrected, it was Sweden not Switerland.  Who knew ?

Cool Mum

According to my eldest daughter Lindsay, her friends all love me and think I'm a "cool" mum, or whatever the current equivalent of "cool" is. It would appear that I have earned this dubious honour by my willingness to host impromptu parties and wild sleepovers. The infamous night comes to mind, when a dozen teens slept in a tent in our backyard and were hooting & hollering on the trampoline at 2.00 A.M. I'm pretty sure our neighbours don't share the loving feelings towards me that Lindsay's friends do. In fact, I think the neighbours may even be a little afraid of us.

Apparently I am also a "cool" mum because of my open mind towards body piercings, (my son at aged 8, was the first and still the only boy in his school to sport an earring) and tattoos. When Lindsay wanted one for her 16th birthday, I went along and got one too. Of course that has made me very unpopular with other parents who don't share my laissez faire attitude.  

Finally, we have the zoo like atmosphere of our home. The dog that chases ghosts on the ceiling, the cat that falls in the toilet, the guinea pigs, rabbits and the occasional trip to the barn. Then, when you throw in my two other children, chaos reigns. What's a few more squealing girls thrown into the mix ?. 

Now, I will let you in on a little secret, I am not a "cool" mum at all. I'm just an idiot, and I never learn from my mistakes.  When one of my offspring suggest a party, sleepover, body art or the heinous trip to Chuckee Cheese with their cousins, my first response is usually, "Sure, why not ? What harm can it do?". It doesn't take long for reality to rear its ugly head, and I very quickly move to the panicked stage of "OMG! WTF was I thinking ?". That is also the time my husband very smugly sneers "I told you so!".  

To be fair, there never has been any harm done, unless of course you count the tenuous relationship we now have with our neighbours. Lindsay couldn't have found better friends, they are all lovely girls. When they troop upstairs from the basement for breakfast the morning after a sleepover that is typically light on sleep and heavy on noise, it is my turn to have fun.  While they sit there at the dining room table, blurry eyed, eating their bacon and waffles (typically covered in whipped cream, icing sugar, chocolate sauce, various fruits and maple syrup) I comment on the various tidbits I heard the night before. Sound carries through the furnace ducts, and there is one right beside my bed. Nothing funnier than the stunned expressions on their teenage faces, as they realise their secrets are secret no more!

The Animals Are Easy ..

People often ask me how we manage with so many animals. I will let you in on a little secret, the animals are easy, the kids not so much. It is not the ferocious dog you have to worry about in our house, it is the children that are more likely to bite you.

At the latest count we have one horse, one dog, four cats, four remaining rabbits, two frogs, an aquarium of fish, and our latest lapse in judgement - three guinea pigs. To be fair the animals are quite a bit of work, at least that is my husband's opinion, but as the kids are getting older they are taking on more of the responsibility, but it's not always smooth sailing.

A typical morning starts when the kids are out of bed, and I commence my broken record routine.  "Grady have you done the rabbits ?" and "Sid, don't forget the pigs".  Sid is usually pretty good, but Grady takes some reminding - especially in winter when he has to go out in the snow to get to the rabbit hutch. Sid is also in charge of feeding the dog - at least when there isn't a mouse hiding in the dog  food. One of  Grady's chores used to be feeding the cats, however the smell of the cat food upset his delicate constitution and quite honestly I couldn't stand listening to the exaggerated gagging and coughing routine every morning as he dry heaved over the bin, each time he opened a sachet of cat food. Now I have taken over feeding the cats and it's my turn to dry heave over the bin instead.

Night time is the fun time, and not what you're thinking.  No sooner have we gone to bed than the cats who have been sleeping all day come in to their own.  We have one female cat - a docile creature who is constantly picked on by the three male cats.  She has taken to hiding under our bed, while the others patrol the perimeter, growling and hissing as she yowls loudly in response. It is enough to make you crazy.  If we're really lucky the victim will beat a hasty retreat across our bed in full claw mode. Rob has taken to keeping a pile of objects beside the bed that he can lob unsuccessfully in the general direction of whichever animal is making the most noise. It is always fun if I have to get up in the dark and stumble over missiles that have landed in the middle of the hall, further evidence of Rob's poor aim. 

If we are really lucky, on a good day - Thursdays come to mind - it is always jolly good fun to be awoken by a loud cursing and swearing as some poor hapless soul (usually my husband) steps in a pile of vomit, left surreptitiously in the middle of a doorway by a vengeful feline. Probably the same creature that had a projectile whiz by his ear a few hours earlier. This is usually accompanied by some variant of "That f***ing cat", together with banging cupboards and slamming doors. You have no idea how much noise can be generated with just paper towels and disinfectant. Good times.

My Sweet Son

My son is a dear little chap, and anyone who knows him can attest to that, except his sisters, naturally. They wouldn't hesitate to throw him under a bus. He has a high regard, for me, his mother and that was never so apparent as this morning. 

On the way to school my "low washer fluid" light comes on, I don't say anything but make a mental note of it. After I drop them off in the school parking lot, Grady comes running back. I asked him if he had forgotten something, but no he wanted to make sure I had heard the warning ding, that accompanied the light coming on.  I explained I had, what it was for and that his dad could refill it for me tonight. Grady in all seriousness replied "Mum, you don't have to wait for dad, there is a bottle of washer fluid behind your seat" 

I look at him incredulously . He actually thinks me - the mechanic's worse nightmare - can refill the washer fluid. The confidence he has in my abilities is stunning. I gently explain to him that I wouldn't know where to put the washer fluid, but refrain from adding that the first time I had to "pop the hood", I had to climb out my van and have the mechanic do it, because I couldn't find the lever. You know, the big red one by my left knee with an icon of an open hood upon it.  

I only wish my other children held me in such high esteem. 

For My Husband

Don't worry, this wont be mushy, but I thought in light of Valentine's Day I should offer up a tribute - of sorts - to my long suffering husband. We have been together 35 years, so by now he has pretty much figured what he got himself into. He should have guessed something was amiss at our wedding when my father stood up and gave what was probably the shortest speech in history - "My congratulations to Kelly and my commiserations to Rob" and then he sat back down. Touching! 

I would like to add, my husband has never had it so good, but I will also be the first to admit he has had to put up with a lot over the years. There was the time I took Lindsay riding and brought back a box of kittens. To be fair there were only two, but they were in a box. When Rob finally started speaking to me again a few days later, I was actually allowed to keep one of them - the neighbours took the other. Then a couple of years later I compounded that transgression by going out to get Sid a birthday cake from Dairy Queen and returned home with another kitten instead. The silent treatment went on for a bit longer that time and we were all forced to sign a contract agreeing not to bring home any more cats. Too bad it didn't extend to hamsters because ....

There was the time that a couple of Lindsay's friends were going away for the summer, and before doing the math, I agreed that she could look after their respective hamsters. You can only imagine Rob's horrified look when he walks into a room of 13 hamster cages. That wasn't the only time I brought home some unexpected guests. He still grumbles about the time I took Lindsay to a birthday party, had a few glasses of wine and invited all the kids back to our house for a sleepover. He didn't believe me at first, but then they started turning up at the door. Boy, did I get an earful the next day after I had sobered up. 

I mustn't forget the time I called Rob at work in a panic because I had thought it was a good idea (it rarely is) to test the fire extinguisher. Trouble is, it was winter and I didn't want to go outside, so I tested it in the kitchen. The damn thing had a life of it's own, and by the time I was able to shut it off (or more likely it was empty), the kitchen was covered from floor to ceiling in foam. I'm not sure what I thought Rob could do about it from his office, but he is the one I call when I'm in a panic .......

Like the time I was stuck in a parking lot one Sunday morning, shortly after I got my driver's license.  By stuck, I mean I had pulled in between two vans at an awkward angle and couldn't get out of my car, nor safely move it without fear of dinging one of the adjacent vehicles. I had run the errand to save Rob some time ...


The ever present question in our house "What the hell have you done this time?" is aimed at me as often as it is the kids. So this goes out to my wonderful husband, and all wonderful husbands everywhere who stand by their wives no matter what. Monday is a holiday so I will be back again on Tuesday.  

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Fishy Tale

The boyfriend (and by boyfriend I mean Lindsy's, not mine. For the record I don't have a boyfriend, but if you are reading this Tom Mison, I am open to the idea!) is desperate for a pet. There are no animals at Zach's house and over the last few months with us, where he has been exposed to baby chicks, birthing guinea pigs, lambs and miniature horses, not to mention the dog, cats and rabbits, he has discovered just how much fun pets can be.

Lindsay thinks it is a good idea to get Zach a fish for Valentines Day, in fact she goes one better and decides to get two so they can be called Zach & Lindsay and live happily together in their fish bowl. Excuse me while I barf. Anyway, not to mock young love, but Lindsay thinks she should get the fish the night before Valentine's day so they and the bowl are all shiny and new. Knowing what a tenuous hold fish have on life (based on the fact that Grady could never understand how his red Beta fish turned blue one day and then back to red a few months later) I suggested she get the fish ahead of time to make sure they would survive the transition from store to home.

Usually my ideas are brilliant, I wouldn't have a blog without them, but this didn't rank as  one of the best. Lindsay ended up bringing home three fish - wouldn't you know it was a buy two get one free sale at the pet store - and two tanks. The bowl she bought for Zach was your classic fish bowl, with no lid. After all with no predatory animals in the house, you don't need a lid. Lindsay's bowl - as she decided to keep the last fish! - at least has a lid on it. This is when it dawns on us, that with four cats in the house, where is a safe spot to keep Zach's fish until Friday?. OMG whose bright idea was this ? 

Lindsay and Rob fill up the tanks add the gravel, plants etc and decide they will be safe on Lindsay's desk, at least they would if it was a desk and not a closet. I'm assuming it was a closet based on the amount of clothes pile thereupon. This fish idea has taken on a life of it's own as the girls now have to clean their room to make space for the fish. The tanks weren't up there half an hour before Lindsay finds two of the cats sitting on her now clean desk, gazing longingly at the fish. Her tank with the lid is safe, but we decide to move Zach's bowl to the high dresser in our bedroom - now it is my turn to have to clean up . Bloody fish.

The next morning I get a call from Rob (he vacates the premises before anyone else gets up. For some reason he prefers it that way), to tell me that one of the cats had stolen the fish food, carried it downstairs to the playroom, proceeded to rip it open on the carpet and eat most of it. I take the phone in so he can give Lindsay the news firsthand and she immediately yells at me to turn on her bedroom light. Her fish is still safe, however the lid meant to deter the cats has been knocked into the tank, effectively trapping the poor hapless fish in a small corner. Lindsay then went on to tell me that she didn't get any sleep because the same two cats spent the night on her desk trying to get the fish. She heard suspicious noises all night, and every time she turned on the flashlight, she'd catch them frozen in the beam, looking very guilty.  She is on the top bunk so didn't feel like clambering down each time, and fortunately she decided against hurling anything at the cats, because her aim is so bad, she would have for sure clobbered the fish. 

I am starting a pool for the life expectancy of the fish, all wagers are welcome.

Stupid Is As Stupid Does

Saturday, and Rob takes Lindsay over to Zach's house (quelle surprise) at lunchtime.  Nine hours later when Sid is on her way to bed she's asks "Where's Lindsay?"  How touching  that she finally notices her sister isn't around.

Meanwhile Grady isn't to be outdone in the stupid department. He is making "molecules" - no I don't know why - out of  styrofoam balls and toothpicks. He starts waving it around gleefully showing off what he had made, only to have half of the contraption fly off and stab him in the neck.

I wonder every day how I managed to birth such geniuses.

The Chaos Theory

I have come to the conclusion that our house is at the center of the Chaos Theory. Chaos: "When the present determines the future, but the approximate present does not approximately determine the future".  I'm not entirely sure what that means, but it pretty much sums up my Monday evening.  

After carpooling the swim team, taking Lindsay to work and then racing home to meet Grady & Sid, I have to listen to Grady grizzle about the amount of homework he has. Half an hour later Simon (18 months) & Elliot (3) arrive for the evening, and we are in full swing.  
My boss picks that moment to call and as I have one ear to the phone I am making frantic gestures to Sid to intervene between the boys as Elliot covers his brother's head in stickers, all the while trying to help Grady translate his essay into French. Sid unfortunately is more concerned with building a tower of dominoes which promptly come toppling down with an almighty crash an inch from my ear. The smoke alarm is wailing and the dog is frantically barking from behind a baby gate on the stairs. I'm not entirely sure if he wants to play with the boys or eat them, better err on the side of caution. But, so far so good. All under control relatively speaking.

Next my cell phone starts to buzz and there is a text from Alyssia, the barn manager.  Lacey has decided to knock down the fence and take the herd walkabout through the countryside.  Unfortunately that wasn't the end of the matter and texts came through fast and furious as Alyssia updates me on Lacey's  exploits for the day. Not content with a mass exodus and once she realizes that the fun is over and it is time to return to the farm, she decides to lead all the horses on to the pond.  I for one am thankful for the long harsh winter and the extra thick layer of ice.

So taking stock, I have one child covered in stickers, another scrambling for dominoes, a third chasing the cats and the last threatening to bin his homework, a barking dog, burnt dinner (hence the smoke alarm), a runaway horse and my boss still on the phone vying for my attention. The Chaos Theory has nothing on my house.

Low Expectations

This weekend's homework is spelling tests, International Fair and novel study.  The day just continues to bear gifts. 

Sid has completed most of her novel study by herself but needs assistance to answer some questions on West Virginia, for which Rob turns to the good old internet. I learned the hard way that where the internet and school projects are concerned, parental supervision isn't just encouraged it is a must. When Lindsay went online for the first time many years ago to research Romans, she discovered an Orgy site. Enough said. 

Anyway, Rob looks up the necessary information and assists Sid with her answers. As she packs up he notices a question has gone unanswered. "What are the three largest cities in West Virginia ?"  He points this out to her and asks why she has left it. "We don't have to answer that one" replied Sid, as she continued to put away her work. "But the information is right here on the screen" her father argued, "Don't you want to impress your teacher?" Without missing a beat Sid rejoins "No, I don't want her to expect too much of me".

Who can argue with that logic ?

Nose Job

So, here I am enjoying a quiet (at least for our house) few moments with my coffee & newspaper while the offspring prepare for school. Suddenly there was a shriek from upstairs and Sid yells down "Mum! Mum!  Guess what?" fearing for the worst, hoping for somewhere south of normal, I reply with some trepidation "What?" 

"You will never believe what I have discovered" Sid continues excitedly. "I have really big nostrils. I can even fit my thumbs in them. Do you wanna see?". So, nowhere near normal, and no I don't want to see, but what else can I expect, that is my Thursday for you in a nutshell.  

Magic Rob.

So one Saturday morning rolls around and Rob suddenly wakes up to the the fact that we would be having a child free evening. Sid & Grady were off on a sleepover and Lindsay of course was off to Zach's house. 

Rob decides this is an opportunity not to be missed, and hot to trot he starts gyrating around the kitchen. I meanwhile had just started a thrilling new book, so I had big plans of another sort for my quiet evening ahead.  

As Rob shimmies & shakes to a beat that could only be heard in his head, I wasn't sure if he was trying to make me laugh or cry. Eager to get on with my crossword, I told him politely to piss off and commented that he was no "Magic Mike". For those not in the know, "Magic Mike" was a movie about male strippers, which also happened to be Lindsay's current favourite "film dejour" at the time. I know, she shouldn't even be aware of such a subject, never mind be glued to it on DVD. That "Parent of the Year" award, ever eludes me.    

Anyway back to Rob, not one to easily take offense at my male stripper comment - which is a shame because it means I will have to try so much harder to offend - retorted that he could pretend. My response was a derisive snort, but at that point a little voice wafts out of the playroom as Sid joins in, "You can pretend all you like dad, but it ain't gonna to happen!".  I don't know what was more dismaying; the fact that Rob was put down by an 9 year old, or that her comeback was so much wittier than mine. The student surpasses the teacher.

Mouse Chronicles Part II

If you are a regular reader and you read yesterday's post then you know that wasn't the  end of the story.  The kids have gone to school and I wake up Lindsay (she is off in between exams) and ask her to feed Badger, of course she sees the mouse immediately and backs out of the crawl space. 

Obviously it is up to me, so I squeeze in and make my first attempt at capture. The poor mouse - a pretty little thing, shiny brown fur, bright black eyes - is sitting on the scoop. I carefully reach in and it darts off.  I shuffle further in and try again. Still no luck, the little bastard is fast. By now I am wedged - the crawl space is a hoarders paradise - and no closer to catching the mouse. Lindsay has a bright idea and suggests we leave it for Zach to deal with. Brilliant. He hates mice, this could be blog-worthy after all.

An hour or so later Zach is over. To be fair, he is an absolute sweetheart and is willing to help with any task that we may ask of him, so I was feeling a tiny bit guilty at what we had planned. Sure enough, when  I asked him to feed Badger, telling him it hurt my back to reach in to the dog food container, he was happy to oblige. Lindsay and I followed him down the stairs. He heads into the crawlspace, turns on the light and flips open the kibble container. Now, I don't wish to cast dispersions on his masculinity, and suggest that he would let out a girly scream, but that was certainly what we were hoping for. 

He reaches in and puts a couple of scoops of kibble into the bowl, no reaction. Lindsay and I give each other a quizzical look. Another scoop and Zach asks if it is enough. "No" we both yell at him, "Put another scoop in". Still no girly scream. Lindsay and I carry on a lip reading conversation behind Zach's back: "WFT ? Where's the mouse?" She mouths at me. "Beats me" I shrug, "Where could it have gone?"  Typically the mice get in there but can't climb back out the smooth sides of the container and stay trapped. By now the dog bowl is almost full, and Zach is convinced he has enough, but we're not ready to let go just yet, and tell him to keep scooping, certain that the mouse will put in a belated appearance. 

Finally when Zach can no longer fit any more kibble in the bowl, Lindsay and I peer into the now empty container and sure enough, there is no sign of the mouse. By now Zach is looking at us as if we've lost the plot and we are forced to confess to our nefarious plan. He is not impressed and can't believe we'd do that to him. Huh ? Where the hell has he been for the last 15 months ? Convinced that the mouse couldn't have escaped I begin to wonder if he was laying stunned, at the bottom of Badgers bowl, under a ton of kibble. I ask Zach, who is still holding the bowl, to feel around with his fingers to see if the mouse was present. Finally we get our girly scream and Zach can't get rid of the bowl fast enough. It was up to me to go fishing in the kibble, fervently hoping I wouldn't get bitten, but there was no sign of anything furry. 

That would have been the end of it, but it was my husband who had the last word when he heard of our hijinks, as he blasts me "Why the hell didn't you catch the fucking mouse when you had the chance, now it's loose in the crawl space and I'm going to have to set a trap".  That will be good for a giggle. There is always an upside.

Mouse Chronicles Part I

So, I am in the bathroom, and as usual I'm guaranteed an interruption. Sure enough I'm not disappointed, and it comes in the guise of Sid, panting outside the door. 

"Mum" she wheezes out
"Yes" I reply resignedly
"I can't feed Badger"
"Why not ?"
"There is a mouse in the dog food. it's sitting on the scoop". 
"Fine, I will deal with it later" 

I thought that was the end of the matter, but I was wrong. Without missing a beat Sid calls out "Grady, can you feed Badger ?".  Unbeknownst to Sid, he was close by and had overheard our previous conversation, so of course he refuses. Sid isn't beaten yet and proceeds to tell him that the reason she needs him to feed Badger is because there isn't much food left and she can't reach it. Grady lets her play out this story, as she digs a deeper hole for herself, thinking for sure she has got one over on her brother, only to have him turn around at the end of it and ask her "What about the mouse?". You could almost hear Sid deflate.

Just Because

Bad weather, heavy snow, lousy road conditions and we have the Idiots Unite Convention. If ever there was a reason to stay off the roads in January in Canada, I can give you several.

Just because you drive a school bus does not give you carte blanche to sail down the middle of the road and force other hapless drivers into a snowbank.  Yes I'm the one in the minivan who taught a whole busload of kids some new sign language this morning. 

Just because the STOP sign is covered with snow, does not mean it isn't there. You still need to bring your vehicle to a halt, and not drive blithely through the intersection forcing the driver with the actual right of way - me - to slide out of the way. Asshole!

 Just because the sign has an 80 on it, that is a limit and not a goal. I will be the first to admit I have a tendency to speed, but even I know enough to slow down in white out conditions, with zero visibility on ice covered roads. Do the drivers who follow me so closely that I can see the whites of their eyes in my rear view mirror, really think I will be intimidated into speeding up ? Have you seen the back of my van ? I still have the dent from my run-in with a bulldozer, the possibility that your little Honda is going to rear-end me, ain't gonna make me go any faster. 

Finally, endless stupidity isn't reserved just for drivers, there are some moronic pedestrians out there as well. I appreciate the sidewalks are ice covered and slippery, but so are the roads, and with massive snowbanks either side already shaving several feet off the width of the street, if you decide to saunter down the middle of it, you don't leave much room for the vehicles which will cause a lot more damage if we hit an icy patch than you landing on your ass. Just saying.