I understand that working at an elementary school must be challenging. That said, I am very concerned with the situation at Tamarac Education Center.
Three times per week, I go to the school to drop my youngest off at Fun Time Pre-School, which is located in a classroom in the same wing as the younger classes. The pre-school doesn’t open its doors until 1pm, so the Fun Time crew waits in the hallway while students are milling about.
At TEC, assuming it isn’t too cold out, all kids are expected to go outside to play after they’re done eating lunch. By the time I get there, most kids are finished eating and in the process of getting their snow gear on.
Since the beginning of the year, I have spent a great many lunch hours helping kids, especially the younger ones, get dressed properly. There are supervisors (grossly outnumbered and overworked supervisors) and teachers who do their best to help as many students as possible, but since these people have to make their way outside to watch the kids on the playground, they can’t stay inside to attend to the kids who aren’t ready yet. And there are a lot of kids.
When I look at the students, I’m sometimes can’t believe they’re old enough to be in school. They look so small, so bewildered with all the chaos. Some of these kids are only 5 years old, and are now required to take on an unrealistic level of independence. They’re used to having Mommy or Daddy help them get dressed, or at the very least make sure they did it right themselves so that they’re fit to be out in -10 degree temperatures.
What they’re not used to is having grown-ups hollering for them to hurry up and get outside. And I’m sure they’re not used to having to search through mountains of belongings to find that other mitten, only to ask for help and be told, “too bad, you’ll have to go out with just one.” (That’s not an example; that’s something I heard a TEC teacher tell a young student last Wednesday. It was -8 degrees outside that day.)
A lot of the time, I spend my wait time zippering jackets, finding renegade mittens, and fixing ski pants. Other times, I’m asked by students to go get someone from the office, to find some toilet paper, or even to check why a little girl is crying in a classroom. I don’t mind at all, but I wonder who they would ask if I (or another Fun Time parent) wasn’t there. After the first rush, there usually isn’t anyone around to ask for help. Most times, there is seldom an adult to be seen until the bells rings at 1pm.
My little boy is scheduled to start grade primary in September, and I planned to start a full-time job while he was in school. After seeing the lack of supervision and assistance these young kids receive, I have decided to put off work for awhile so I can go help him (and others) at the school. This decision is forced; I’m not exaggerating the state of affairs for the sake of doling out criticism, and I’m not one of those crazy mothers who are at TEC every two minutes to complain about something.
What I am is a mother who, had I not been there to see the problems first hand, would have sent her little boy to school and assumed he’d be well taken care of, like I’m sure most parents do. I am also a mother who has reasonable standards for appropriate supervision and student assistance, which are not being met in that wing as far as myself and many others are concerned.
To be clear, it seems as though most of the current staff is doing their best in a difficult-to-manage situation. I don’t know whose problem this is to solve; do we need an on-site reassessment of staff-to-student ratios based on the needs of younger students? A funding increase from the Department of Education, to allow for hiring of more supervisory staff? Recruitment of volunteers to ensure the students’ needs are being met?
As a parent, I don’t have the tools to solve the existing problems. What I have is the luxury of being able to go to the school every day to make sure my own child is getting the help he needs, and helping as many other kids as I can in the process. I also have a voice, and I’ll use it to call attention to the problems at TEC until they are solved, on behalf of other parents who don’t have that same luxury.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Only One Dreading June
In case I haven’t mentioned it before (ha!), I’m in love with American Idol. When most people are praying for a speedy winter and lingering summer, I wait all year for January and the promise of 80s music, cracking under pressure, and Simon Cowell. Some people make fun of me for enjoying such a contrived reality show, but I don’t care; I’ve been a faithful, perhaps even obsessive, viewer since the very beginning, and that isn’t about to change despite a bit of mocking.
That said, I think I’ve earned the right to put in my two cents about the recent goings-on in the American Idol sphere, and since I don’t make it a habit of talking about specific television shows (once a year isn’t overkill, is it?), I’m getting it out of the way now seeing as the premiere was this week. If you watch it, great, I love to talk to other fans about the different dynamics. If you despise it, bear with me while I get a few things off my chest.
First of all, I’m growing very tired of the blooper episodes. While I agree that Idol is as much about crushing dreams as it is about finding talent, I would much rather watch good and less-than-good auditions, rather than have to sit through hours of try-outs that waste everyone’s time with horrible singing that obviously and knowingly will never make the cut.
We get that bad singers who think they’re good can sometimes be funny, but bad singers who KNOW they’re ridiculous make for fruitless auditions and episodes that bore people to death, since the humor of their attempts disappeared many seasons ago. One blooper episode would be enough for me, and at that I might not even watch it. Idol is supposed to be about singing, not intentionally making a complete fool of yourself. (That’s what The Bachelor is for. Snap!).
By far my biggest issue with the show is the toss-up at the judges’ table. As we all know, everyone’s favorite mumbling, incoherent singing expert, Paula Abdul, failed to reach a contract agreement with the show and left for good. This development made me a little sad, not because I was going to miss the pearls of wisdom she’d give the contestants, but because she was both the comic relief and the softy over at the judging table.
When Randy bored me with his robotic evaluation and Simon was unnecessarily harsh, you could always count on Paula to tell the poor, sobbing mess on stage that she looked beautiful. At the very least, she could ease tensions in a heartbeat with one of her slurred diatribes that even Ryan Seacrest couldn’t help but snicker at.
(I haven’t mentioned the other judge, Kara Dio-whatever-her-name-is, because I haven’t yet accepted that she’s a judge on my favorite show. Since her arrival I’ve been in a state of denial that she’s an actual fixture and I keep waiting for the night when she’s just not there anymore. She doesn’t belong.)
To add insult to injury, not only did one of television’s Holy Trinity bite the dust, but TPTB (the powers that be, a common term for the wizards behind the Idol curtain) brought in someone to replace her. Had it been some other washed up pop star I might not have complained as much, but the replacement is Ellen Degeneres.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Ellen as much as the next person. I think she has a fantastic show and does great philanthropic work, and she is even well-versed and knowledgeable about American Idol. I just can’t imagine what she’ll be like as a judge. While Paula’s “funny” was unintentional and spontaneous, I’m not sure there’s room for Ellen’s stand-up routine on the judges panel.
This is a show that people take somewhat seriously (well, at least some people), and we don’t want it turned into Yuk Yuk’s with karaoke. I’m hoping she proves me wrong and turns out to be a compliment to the whole production, but I foresee some really bad jokes, uncomfortable laughter, and a whole lot of eye-rolling from Simon’s chair.
Lastly, a bit of breaking news: this will be Simon’s last year on American Idol. He will be announcing his departure at the end of the season in favor of bringing his British show, The X Factor, to American television. And the kicker? Rumor has it that Paula Abdul will be judging along side of him. Chances are, I’ll be going where the talent is and leaving Randy and Ellen to enjoy the end of an era.
Until then, you can find me in front of the television Tuesday and Wednesday nights, dreading June.
That said, I think I’ve earned the right to put in my two cents about the recent goings-on in the American Idol sphere, and since I don’t make it a habit of talking about specific television shows (once a year isn’t overkill, is it?), I’m getting it out of the way now seeing as the premiere was this week. If you watch it, great, I love to talk to other fans about the different dynamics. If you despise it, bear with me while I get a few things off my chest.
First of all, I’m growing very tired of the blooper episodes. While I agree that Idol is as much about crushing dreams as it is about finding talent, I would much rather watch good and less-than-good auditions, rather than have to sit through hours of try-outs that waste everyone’s time with horrible singing that obviously and knowingly will never make the cut.
We get that bad singers who think they’re good can sometimes be funny, but bad singers who KNOW they’re ridiculous make for fruitless auditions and episodes that bore people to death, since the humor of their attempts disappeared many seasons ago. One blooper episode would be enough for me, and at that I might not even watch it. Idol is supposed to be about singing, not intentionally making a complete fool of yourself. (That’s what The Bachelor is for. Snap!).
By far my biggest issue with the show is the toss-up at the judges’ table. As we all know, everyone’s favorite mumbling, incoherent singing expert, Paula Abdul, failed to reach a contract agreement with the show and left for good. This development made me a little sad, not because I was going to miss the pearls of wisdom she’d give the contestants, but because she was both the comic relief and the softy over at the judging table.
When Randy bored me with his robotic evaluation and Simon was unnecessarily harsh, you could always count on Paula to tell the poor, sobbing mess on stage that she looked beautiful. At the very least, she could ease tensions in a heartbeat with one of her slurred diatribes that even Ryan Seacrest couldn’t help but snicker at.
(I haven’t mentioned the other judge, Kara Dio-whatever-her-name-is, because I haven’t yet accepted that she’s a judge on my favorite show. Since her arrival I’ve been in a state of denial that she’s an actual fixture and I keep waiting for the night when she’s just not there anymore. She doesn’t belong.)
To add insult to injury, not only did one of television’s Holy Trinity bite the dust, but TPTB (the powers that be, a common term for the wizards behind the Idol curtain) brought in someone to replace her. Had it been some other washed up pop star I might not have complained as much, but the replacement is Ellen Degeneres.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy Ellen as much as the next person. I think she has a fantastic show and does great philanthropic work, and she is even well-versed and knowledgeable about American Idol. I just can’t imagine what she’ll be like as a judge. While Paula’s “funny” was unintentional and spontaneous, I’m not sure there’s room for Ellen’s stand-up routine on the judges panel.
This is a show that people take somewhat seriously (well, at least some people), and we don’t want it turned into Yuk Yuk’s with karaoke. I’m hoping she proves me wrong and turns out to be a compliment to the whole production, but I foresee some really bad jokes, uncomfortable laughter, and a whole lot of eye-rolling from Simon’s chair.
Lastly, a bit of breaking news: this will be Simon’s last year on American Idol. He will be announcing his departure at the end of the season in favor of bringing his British show, The X Factor, to American television. And the kicker? Rumor has it that Paula Abdul will be judging along side of him. Chances are, I’ll be going where the talent is and leaving Randy and Ellen to enjoy the end of an era.
Until then, you can find me in front of the television Tuesday and Wednesday nights, dreading June.
To Bed, I Said
Last year I resolved to quit pop, and quit I did (it’s the first resolution I’ve ever kept, truth be told). Because I kept my promise in 2009, this year I’m giving myself a break as far as resolutions go, for the most part. Instead, I’m going to suggest a few for those people who haven’t yet thought of a good one (my crafty way of calling out a few annoyances). There are things that should be put to bed along with 2009.
Maybe it’s nit-picky of me, but I think there needs to be an overhaul in the human communication department. I can be a stickler about grammar and spelling; not because I’m perfect at it, but because I’m a firm believer that we’ve become so accustomed to seeing horrendous writing habits that we put up with it (and sometimes even adopt them ourselves).
You’d never say, “bulldog is there soup roughly”, would you? No, because, though every word in that sentence is definitely a word, together they create a sentence that makes no sense. “Your” is a different word than “you’re” and has a completely different meaning. Just because words sound the same phonetically doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable.
Though I realize how snooty this complaint might sound, there is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, and people like me get hives and stuff when we think about it. So, repeat after me: “I will attempt to make proper use of the English language when communicating with others, even if it means having to proofread.” My Facebook wall thanks you in advance.
I get that we live in the age of shortcuts and efficiency and all that, but come on, no one could possibly be so rushed that “whatever” (an already overused word, by the way) has been shortened to “whatevs”. It only has one less letter than the actual word. ONE LESS LETTER!
Has it really come to this? Do we believe our time is so valuable that typing a few extra letters will significantly delay our plans for the day? There is a fine line between shorthand and plain laziness, and unlimited mobile texting packages seem to have blurred that line. So, repeat after me: “This year, I will not reduce myself or my intelligence to a sentence, typed, texted or otherwise, that reads similar to, ‘Come str8 home n I’ll talk 2 U @ wrk 2day.’”
I’m not Martha Stewart; I use slang like everyone else, usually without even knowing it, which is why I thought of this next resolution. I find myself, on a regular basis, employing the most unrefined and fabricated slang word in the history of slang words. Are you ready for it? “You’s’ll.” Read it again and you might discover you’re guilty of using it yourself.
Pronounced “Yoozzle”, it is a double-contraction (there is such thing, but this one isn’t on any list of proper ones, and I’ve searched) and serves as a short way to say “you guys will”. What makes the word even more offensive is how it seems to be an expression exclusive to this area, and nothing says “backwoods” quite like pretend lazy-words. In rural Kentucky you might hear, “Y’all’ll have bushels of fun at the tractor pull.” Doesn’t sound too sophisticated, does it? Bad news is, “You’s’ll have to stop over next time you’re down,” is the Cape Breton equivalent. Say it with me: “I hereby eliminate ‘you’s’ll’ and other similar made-up words from my vocabulary.”
I’m on a roll and running out of space, so the rest will have to be short and sweet.
“I will never pester anyone to join Farmville, nor will I try to explain it incessantly.” Believe it or not, there is an entire world of people who don’t make-believe they’re on farm. They’re okay with you and your preference, they’re just not interested in it themselves. Carry on.
“I will not judge people for wearing second-hand clothes.” Whoever decided that consignment shops are for poor people should be ashamed. They’re for thrifty shoppers, rich or poor, and no kid should ever be made to feel embarrassed that their shirt didn’t cost as much as someone else’s. Newsflash: with the exception of VERY few things, all of which could not be purchased at a consignment shop for one reason or another, I haven’t made a retail clothing purchase in close to five years.
Speaking of clothes, I’ll sign off with this resolution: “I, being an established individual over the age of 15, promise to never enter a grocery store wearing what are quite obviously pajama pants.” Tell your friends.
Here’s to a fantastic, grammatically-correct, judgement-free, pajama pants-less 2010!
Maybe it’s nit-picky of me, but I think there needs to be an overhaul in the human communication department. I can be a stickler about grammar and spelling; not because I’m perfect at it, but because I’m a firm believer that we’ve become so accustomed to seeing horrendous writing habits that we put up with it (and sometimes even adopt them ourselves).
You’d never say, “bulldog is there soup roughly”, would you? No, because, though every word in that sentence is definitely a word, together they create a sentence that makes no sense. “Your” is a different word than “you’re” and has a completely different meaning. Just because words sound the same phonetically doesn’t mean they’re interchangeable.
Though I realize how snooty this complaint might sound, there is an epidemic that needs to be addressed, and people like me get hives and stuff when we think about it. So, repeat after me: “I will attempt to make proper use of the English language when communicating with others, even if it means having to proofread.” My Facebook wall thanks you in advance.
I get that we live in the age of shortcuts and efficiency and all that, but come on, no one could possibly be so rushed that “whatever” (an already overused word, by the way) has been shortened to “whatevs”. It only has one less letter than the actual word. ONE LESS LETTER!
Has it really come to this? Do we believe our time is so valuable that typing a few extra letters will significantly delay our plans for the day? There is a fine line between shorthand and plain laziness, and unlimited mobile texting packages seem to have blurred that line. So, repeat after me: “This year, I will not reduce myself or my intelligence to a sentence, typed, texted or otherwise, that reads similar to, ‘Come str8 home n I’ll talk 2 U @ wrk 2day.’”
I’m not Martha Stewart; I use slang like everyone else, usually without even knowing it, which is why I thought of this next resolution. I find myself, on a regular basis, employing the most unrefined and fabricated slang word in the history of slang words. Are you ready for it? “You’s’ll.” Read it again and you might discover you’re guilty of using it yourself.
Pronounced “Yoozzle”, it is a double-contraction (there is such thing, but this one isn’t on any list of proper ones, and I’ve searched) and serves as a short way to say “you guys will”. What makes the word even more offensive is how it seems to be an expression exclusive to this area, and nothing says “backwoods” quite like pretend lazy-words. In rural Kentucky you might hear, “Y’all’ll have bushels of fun at the tractor pull.” Doesn’t sound too sophisticated, does it? Bad news is, “You’s’ll have to stop over next time you’re down,” is the Cape Breton equivalent. Say it with me: “I hereby eliminate ‘you’s’ll’ and other similar made-up words from my vocabulary.”
I’m on a roll and running out of space, so the rest will have to be short and sweet.
“I will never pester anyone to join Farmville, nor will I try to explain it incessantly.” Believe it or not, there is an entire world of people who don’t make-believe they’re on farm. They’re okay with you and your preference, they’re just not interested in it themselves. Carry on.
“I will not judge people for wearing second-hand clothes.” Whoever decided that consignment shops are for poor people should be ashamed. They’re for thrifty shoppers, rich or poor, and no kid should ever be made to feel embarrassed that their shirt didn’t cost as much as someone else’s. Newsflash: with the exception of VERY few things, all of which could not be purchased at a consignment shop for one reason or another, I haven’t made a retail clothing purchase in close to five years.
Speaking of clothes, I’ll sign off with this resolution: “I, being an established individual over the age of 15, promise to never enter a grocery store wearing what are quite obviously pajama pants.” Tell your friends.
Here’s to a fantastic, grammatically-correct, judgement-free, pajama pants-less 2010!
A Visit With Amy
In August of 1984, I was at the River Bourgeois community hall with my mother, watching the festival princess pageant. During the intermission, a man asked my age, and I replied that I was five years old. He said he had a little girl who was also five, and that she would be in my class when school started the next week. He brought her over to say hello, and that was that.
That man was Arthur Doary, a man who’s house I would spend countless hours and days at over the next decade. And that little girl was his daughter Amy, the girl who would be my very best childhood friend.
Amy and I were pretty much inseparable all through elementary school. We were in every class together, sat beside each other, and played outside every recess. On weekends, our rendezvous point was usually church; either I had already spent the day at her house and went home after Mass with my grandparents, or I arrived at the church with Grandma & Grandpa but left with Amy since I was spending the night.
We spent so many afternoons and evenings eating her mother’s cooking, I’m getting fat just thinking about it.
Henrietta’s specialties weren’t just special , they were something I looked forward to and, later, something I missed. She’d make us vanilla sundaes with homemade chocolate sauce and brownies you’d be wise to trade your pancreas for. Make no mistake, for a skinny gal, that Amy could put away a fistful of peanut butter cups that would scare you to death.
One of the best parts of being friends with Amy all those years ago was the fun we’d make. We were girly-girls, but not your run-of-the-mill ones exactly. Instead of playing Barbies, we’d make up our own secret language, or maybe write acceptance speeches for awards we planned to win when we grew up, or even start a dance group.
Yeah, that’s right – the Amy I speak of was none other than one-third of the community-renowned Awesome Threesome, a travelling dance trio we founded when we were 11 years old. I can’t tell you how many hours we spent in her basement planning dance routines, lip-syncing to Bananarama, and memorizing Janet Jackson videos. We were going to be stars. Skinny, kind of awkward-looking ones with unfortunate taste in performance costumes, but stars nonetheless.
It was hard to imagine, back in the day, that Amy and I would ever be anything less than the very best of friends. We never had a falling out of any kind, but, as isn’t unusual, we started running with different crowds once high school started. We both made good marks, participated in lots of extra-curricular activities, and were even on the student council together, but we just weren’t in the same clique. I suppose it’s normal for people to drift apart somewhat as they get older.
It wasn’t a clean break, to be sure. As I grew up, I thought of Amy often and always wondered what she was doing, sending her good thoughts in the process. She was the friend that, even though I had gone away to school and trampled through the house with a million friends since, my grandparents would ask about on a regular basis, and who I would always be happy to hear news of through the grapevine.
It’s been over 25 years since I first met Amy, and I’m happy to say, I just got home from a nice visit at her house.
The best thing about Facebook is how I’ve gotten back in touch with old friends, her specifically. It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of life, and good intentions of staying in touch can be lost to the changes in your own world. Yet here it is almost 2010, and earlier today I was greeted at one of my favorite houses by a blonde-haired 30-year-old wearing a chic Argentinian shawl, smiling that same smile, serving me some of those same peanut butter cups, and chatting with me as though we were back in 1987.
We’ve made it a habit to get together for one of those chats every time she comes to Cape Breton on vacation from her fancy-schmancy job in Toronto. We talk about careers, marriage, kids, old friends, and we laugh – a lot.
I’m so glad we’re still capable of that after all these years, and I can assure you that, Facebook or no Facebook, I’ll make it a point to stay in touch with Amy. Many have come and gone over the years, but this one’s a keeper.
See you next Christmas, friend.
That man was Arthur Doary, a man who’s house I would spend countless hours and days at over the next decade. And that little girl was his daughter Amy, the girl who would be my very best childhood friend.
Amy and I were pretty much inseparable all through elementary school. We were in every class together, sat beside each other, and played outside every recess. On weekends, our rendezvous point was usually church; either I had already spent the day at her house and went home after Mass with my grandparents, or I arrived at the church with Grandma & Grandpa but left with Amy since I was spending the night.
We spent so many afternoons and evenings eating her mother’s cooking, I’m getting fat just thinking about it.
Henrietta’s specialties weren’t just special , they were something I looked forward to and, later, something I missed. She’d make us vanilla sundaes with homemade chocolate sauce and brownies you’d be wise to trade your pancreas for. Make no mistake, for a skinny gal, that Amy could put away a fistful of peanut butter cups that would scare you to death.
One of the best parts of being friends with Amy all those years ago was the fun we’d make. We were girly-girls, but not your run-of-the-mill ones exactly. Instead of playing Barbies, we’d make up our own secret language, or maybe write acceptance speeches for awards we planned to win when we grew up, or even start a dance group.
Yeah, that’s right – the Amy I speak of was none other than one-third of the community-renowned Awesome Threesome, a travelling dance trio we founded when we were 11 years old. I can’t tell you how many hours we spent in her basement planning dance routines, lip-syncing to Bananarama, and memorizing Janet Jackson videos. We were going to be stars. Skinny, kind of awkward-looking ones with unfortunate taste in performance costumes, but stars nonetheless.
It was hard to imagine, back in the day, that Amy and I would ever be anything less than the very best of friends. We never had a falling out of any kind, but, as isn’t unusual, we started running with different crowds once high school started. We both made good marks, participated in lots of extra-curricular activities, and were even on the student council together, but we just weren’t in the same clique. I suppose it’s normal for people to drift apart somewhat as they get older.
It wasn’t a clean break, to be sure. As I grew up, I thought of Amy often and always wondered what she was doing, sending her good thoughts in the process. She was the friend that, even though I had gone away to school and trampled through the house with a million friends since, my grandparents would ask about on a regular basis, and who I would always be happy to hear news of through the grapevine.
It’s been over 25 years since I first met Amy, and I’m happy to say, I just got home from a nice visit at her house.
The best thing about Facebook is how I’ve gotten back in touch with old friends, her specifically. It’s so easy to get lost in the chaos of life, and good intentions of staying in touch can be lost to the changes in your own world. Yet here it is almost 2010, and earlier today I was greeted at one of my favorite houses by a blonde-haired 30-year-old wearing a chic Argentinian shawl, smiling that same smile, serving me some of those same peanut butter cups, and chatting with me as though we were back in 1987.
We’ve made it a habit to get together for one of those chats every time she comes to Cape Breton on vacation from her fancy-schmancy job in Toronto. We talk about careers, marriage, kids, old friends, and we laugh – a lot.
I’m so glad we’re still capable of that after all these years, and I can assure you that, Facebook or no Facebook, I’ll make it a point to stay in touch with Amy. Many have come and gone over the years, but this one’s a keeper.
See you next Christmas, friend.
We Always Pull it Off
When Christmas rolls around (as it tends to every year without fail, regardless of opposition), the spotlight falls not only on carols and presents, but also on the outstanding ability of heads of household (most often women) to plan and prepare.
I should probably mention right off the bat that neither I nor my husband are the subjects of each example I'll cite. He's a wonderful, generous, considerate kind of guy who puts thought into the many gifts he buys, almost all the time. (Almost. He is a man, after all.) At the same time, I’m no June Cleaver; I forget stuff and get somewhat disorganized, too.
For us coordinators, pretty often, Christmas starts November 1st, if not earlier. It's partially the fault of stores, since they start stocking the shelves with Christmas loot before the Halloween decorations are even put away. Not only that, but planning for an event as big and complex as the biggest gift-giving holiday of the year, is not to be taken lightly or left until the last minute.
By the time early November marks the calendar, only a handful of paycheques remain before the big day. A sensible person will remember, even through the chaos, that Christmas is merely one day, and that bills still roll in the week after; parents normally dismiss this well-known fact and spend money as though this year is the last Christmas ever. In history. A wise man once said, “Christmas is the season when you buy this year’s presents with next year’s money.” I try not to do that, honestly, but it gets away from me the same way as it does from others.
In any event, women seem to be more mindful of the looming free-for-all than men. We start making up lists (if only in our head) of people to buy for, items to get, menus, even itineraries. Some will attempt a short brainstorming session (“honey, do you have any idea what we should get the kids for Christmas this year?), which is usually met with a lot of, “Have you lost your mind? Do you realize it’s not for another two months?”
Persistent buggers though we are, husbands are usually better at the abstract ideas (“no more remote control anything and nothing with a bunch of parts”) than at concrete gift ideas. We may have hinted about a beautiful snowflake pendant or DVD box set, but hints aren’t something these guys are on the lookout for. Women, on the other hand, will latch onto his most casual mention of a desired item and search every store in the province and beyond. We actually enjoy it, the satisfaction of finding that perfect gift and the anticipation of watching the reaction to it.
Only when that reaction is an unenthusiastic, “cool, thanks,” does anything hit the royal fan.
We’ve got this whole holiday under control, don’t we, ladies? From making budgets, to Web-store delivery deadlines, to hot items that’ll need to be scooped up before the masses get to them. We remember to buy small tokens for the teachers and have them ready for the last day of school before vacation. We make it our business to know that the nieces are no longer fans of Hanna Montana and have moved on to Wizards of Waverly Place. We’ve already been briefed on which Edward Cullen swag to avoid and whether so-and-so has a Wii or an xBox.
We schedule appointments well in advance for kids’ pictures, to make sure there’s ample time to include them in our Christmas cards, which have to be mailed in time for people to send one back. We make sure each kid has a nice outfit in the closet for the concert at school, and each adult has appropriate attire for the party at work.
We know when turkeys will be on sale, and not to buy that radio at one store for $50 when it’s only $32.99 down the street. When company starts showing up around the 20th, we’ve already made sure to whip up some shortbread cookies and pick up a box of chocolates for our guests. Not to mention the kids have received written replies from Santa, since we helped them write their letters weeks ago.
Even the little things we can manage to remember. We buy lots of batteries for the toys, extra garbage bags for the Christmas morning mess, and even a few double-doubles for the one day of the year you can’t run out and get them. Every base is covered, with few exceptions.
Give yourselves a hand, planners; your work really is impressive.
I hope you all have a wonderful, safe, and well-coordinated holiday.
I should probably mention right off the bat that neither I nor my husband are the subjects of each example I'll cite. He's a wonderful, generous, considerate kind of guy who puts thought into the many gifts he buys, almost all the time. (Almost. He is a man, after all.) At the same time, I’m no June Cleaver; I forget stuff and get somewhat disorganized, too.
For us coordinators, pretty often, Christmas starts November 1st, if not earlier. It's partially the fault of stores, since they start stocking the shelves with Christmas loot before the Halloween decorations are even put away. Not only that, but planning for an event as big and complex as the biggest gift-giving holiday of the year, is not to be taken lightly or left until the last minute.
By the time early November marks the calendar, only a handful of paycheques remain before the big day. A sensible person will remember, even through the chaos, that Christmas is merely one day, and that bills still roll in the week after; parents normally dismiss this well-known fact and spend money as though this year is the last Christmas ever. In history. A wise man once said, “Christmas is the season when you buy this year’s presents with next year’s money.” I try not to do that, honestly, but it gets away from me the same way as it does from others.
In any event, women seem to be more mindful of the looming free-for-all than men. We start making up lists (if only in our head) of people to buy for, items to get, menus, even itineraries. Some will attempt a short brainstorming session (“honey, do you have any idea what we should get the kids for Christmas this year?), which is usually met with a lot of, “Have you lost your mind? Do you realize it’s not for another two months?”
Persistent buggers though we are, husbands are usually better at the abstract ideas (“no more remote control anything and nothing with a bunch of parts”) than at concrete gift ideas. We may have hinted about a beautiful snowflake pendant or DVD box set, but hints aren’t something these guys are on the lookout for. Women, on the other hand, will latch onto his most casual mention of a desired item and search every store in the province and beyond. We actually enjoy it, the satisfaction of finding that perfect gift and the anticipation of watching the reaction to it.
Only when that reaction is an unenthusiastic, “cool, thanks,” does anything hit the royal fan.
We’ve got this whole holiday under control, don’t we, ladies? From making budgets, to Web-store delivery deadlines, to hot items that’ll need to be scooped up before the masses get to them. We remember to buy small tokens for the teachers and have them ready for the last day of school before vacation. We make it our business to know that the nieces are no longer fans of Hanna Montana and have moved on to Wizards of Waverly Place. We’ve already been briefed on which Edward Cullen swag to avoid and whether so-and-so has a Wii or an xBox.
We schedule appointments well in advance for kids’ pictures, to make sure there’s ample time to include them in our Christmas cards, which have to be mailed in time for people to send one back. We make sure each kid has a nice outfit in the closet for the concert at school, and each adult has appropriate attire for the party at work.
We know when turkeys will be on sale, and not to buy that radio at one store for $50 when it’s only $32.99 down the street. When company starts showing up around the 20th, we’ve already made sure to whip up some shortbread cookies and pick up a box of chocolates for our guests. Not to mention the kids have received written replies from Santa, since we helped them write their letters weeks ago.
Even the little things we can manage to remember. We buy lots of batteries for the toys, extra garbage bags for the Christmas morning mess, and even a few double-doubles for the one day of the year you can’t run out and get them. Every base is covered, with few exceptions.
Give yourselves a hand, planners; your work really is impressive.
I hope you all have a wonderful, safe, and well-coordinated holiday.
The Usual Suspects
You either sing or you don't, and nothing separates the men from the mice, so to speak, like a good night of karaoke (singing along to an instrumental track, for those not in the know).
Participation is key, and it's not that only good singers should take part, or that terrible singers should stay away; quite the contrary, actually. Sometimes the superstars bomb and the most tone-deaf bring down the house. I consider myself to be somewhere in the middle, which is probably why I enjoy the karaoke experience so much. I'm neither facing the pressure of being the best nor worried about being the worst.
Just like every classroom, family, and movie has a cast of characters, so does the karaoke club scene have it's own set of recognizable personalities.
For those of you who have never partaken in an evening of this sort (and for the regulars who might get a chuckle), I'll briefly introduce these characters.
The Teacher's Pet - It won't take long to spot this person during a night of karaoke. They're often first up to sing, strutting onto the stage with a cool confidence only found in someone who has either already signed to a seven-figure, major-label recording contract, or who has graced that same stage countless times before. Often, the KJ (karaoke jockey) doesn't even have to ask which song to put on for them. He or she will adjust the microphone with ease and sing with incredible volume (however incredible their skill). Likely song choice: something by Melissa Etheridge. Count on a low- to mid- tempo power ballad, and count on it to be sung relatively well.
The Bait & Switch-er (otherwise known as "The Susan Boyle") - This is perhaps the most entertaining person at karaoke night. A quiet, unassuming girl, sitting with a few friends, not looking for any attention. You're almost feeling sorry for her as she takes the stage and awkwardly holds the mike with both hands, and you prepare to hear something from the Hannah Montana soundtrack. Instead, the speakers thump, Hannah flashes some sort of gang sign and yells, "Yo VIP, let's kick it!" Say what? SAY WHAT?! The crowd is astounded, but by the time she gets to, "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it, " the audience is singing along as though "Ice, Ice Baby" was the national anthem. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what karaoke is all about. Song choice: something seemingly antithetical; think "Genie in a Bottle" by Christina Aguilera for a hefty, 40-something guy.
The Diva - Not to be confused with the Teacher's Pet, who is usually a competent singer (though sometimes they are one in the same), this regular must have been propped up by a generous but insincere compliment at some point in the past and now spends Friday nights waiting to be plucked from obscurity by a rep from Jive Records. The Diva will almost always be overdressed, sing a top-10 hit by an incomparable female artist, and make ridiculous arm/hand movements for effect. During high notes he/she (unsuccessfully) attempts to hit, it's common for he/she to raise an index finger to the sky, almost as though that finger's directional rise will help that note reach a level it is just never going to reach. Song choice: "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.
The Shocker - There's always one, whether it be a regular or a guest who's only in town for the night. This character is always drunk. Not just "had a few drinks" drunk, I'm talking "just functioning" drunk. Who knows what possessed this individual to think singing in public would be a good idea in that state, but there they stand on the stage, swaying unintentionally, eyes droopy, lazy smile, looking helplessly at the monitor. The first verse comes and goes with only a few mumbled words being spoken into the mike, and the crowd has already lost interest. And then, out of nowhere, like a sudden jolt of sobriety, the chorus comes on and The Shocker leaps enthusiastically into action, forcefully belting out the familiar words and mumbling only those pesky pronouns. And sometimes the conjunctions. Who are we kidding, only the main words are intelligible, but darn it if it's not an enthusiastic delivery. Once the chorus is over the stammering starts all over again, and at the end of the song, the Shocker might get tangled in the microphone cord and trip over a straw. Song choice: Sweet Home Alabama.
I'll be in the finals of a karaoke competition here in Port Hawkesbury on December 18th, and I hope everyone comes out for some great entertainment. Perhaps not courtesy of MY voice, but certainly from someone's.
Participation is key, and it's not that only good singers should take part, or that terrible singers should stay away; quite the contrary, actually. Sometimes the superstars bomb and the most tone-deaf bring down the house. I consider myself to be somewhere in the middle, which is probably why I enjoy the karaoke experience so much. I'm neither facing the pressure of being the best nor worried about being the worst.
Just like every classroom, family, and movie has a cast of characters, so does the karaoke club scene have it's own set of recognizable personalities.
For those of you who have never partaken in an evening of this sort (and for the regulars who might get a chuckle), I'll briefly introduce these characters.
The Teacher's Pet - It won't take long to spot this person during a night of karaoke. They're often first up to sing, strutting onto the stage with a cool confidence only found in someone who has either already signed to a seven-figure, major-label recording contract, or who has graced that same stage countless times before. Often, the KJ (karaoke jockey) doesn't even have to ask which song to put on for them. He or she will adjust the microphone with ease and sing with incredible volume (however incredible their skill). Likely song choice: something by Melissa Etheridge. Count on a low- to mid- tempo power ballad, and count on it to be sung relatively well.
The Bait & Switch-er (otherwise known as "The Susan Boyle") - This is perhaps the most entertaining person at karaoke night. A quiet, unassuming girl, sitting with a few friends, not looking for any attention. You're almost feeling sorry for her as she takes the stage and awkwardly holds the mike with both hands, and you prepare to hear something from the Hannah Montana soundtrack. Instead, the speakers thump, Hannah flashes some sort of gang sign and yells, "Yo VIP, let's kick it!" Say what? SAY WHAT?! The crowd is astounded, but by the time she gets to, "Check out the hook while my DJ revolves it, " the audience is singing along as though "Ice, Ice Baby" was the national anthem. This, ladies and gentlemen, is what karaoke is all about. Song choice: something seemingly antithetical; think "Genie in a Bottle" by Christina Aguilera for a hefty, 40-something guy.
The Diva - Not to be confused with the Teacher's Pet, who is usually a competent singer (though sometimes they are one in the same), this regular must have been propped up by a generous but insincere compliment at some point in the past and now spends Friday nights waiting to be plucked from obscurity by a rep from Jive Records. The Diva will almost always be overdressed, sing a top-10 hit by an incomparable female artist, and make ridiculous arm/hand movements for effect. During high notes he/she (unsuccessfully) attempts to hit, it's common for he/she to raise an index finger to the sky, almost as though that finger's directional rise will help that note reach a level it is just never going to reach. Song choice: "Vision of Love" by Mariah Carey.
The Shocker - There's always one, whether it be a regular or a guest who's only in town for the night. This character is always drunk. Not just "had a few drinks" drunk, I'm talking "just functioning" drunk. Who knows what possessed this individual to think singing in public would be a good idea in that state, but there they stand on the stage, swaying unintentionally, eyes droopy, lazy smile, looking helplessly at the monitor. The first verse comes and goes with only a few mumbled words being spoken into the mike, and the crowd has already lost interest. And then, out of nowhere, like a sudden jolt of sobriety, the chorus comes on and The Shocker leaps enthusiastically into action, forcefully belting out the familiar words and mumbling only those pesky pronouns. And sometimes the conjunctions. Who are we kidding, only the main words are intelligible, but darn it if it's not an enthusiastic delivery. Once the chorus is over the stammering starts all over again, and at the end of the song, the Shocker might get tangled in the microphone cord and trip over a straw. Song choice: Sweet Home Alabama.
I'll be in the finals of a karaoke competition here in Port Hawkesbury on December 18th, and I hope everyone comes out for some great entertainment. Perhaps not courtesy of MY voice, but certainly from someone's.
Twi-Hard
I'm a little late to the Twilight party. When everyone else was gushing and non-stop-chattering about the movies and books, I stuck my nose in the air and sniffed at the whole idea. (Sometimes I'll do that - ignore a fad based not on it's actual worthiness or lack thereof, but just out of spite and resistance to conformity. Lame, I know. But, I was totally justified with snubs of Lou Bega/Mambo #5, Star Wars Ep. 1-3, and that Heroes show.)
Anyway, one night months ago we put Twilight on the DVD player since there was nothing on television and, much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I didn't salivate or palpitate or any of those typical reactions, but it was more entertaining than watching repeats of King of Queens. I still had no interest in reading the books, which, since I'm an avid reader, annoyed quite a few of my Twi-Hard friends.
Two weeks ago I found myself with nothing to read, and I started looking pretty hard at the Twilight book sitting on my son's bureau. "No, you won't read that. 'Cause then you'll have to read the whole series and you might like them and that would not be in keeping with your whole resistance movement," I told myself.
It's a fantasy novel, not my style. I won't even read Anne Rice, the undisputed queen of the undead, let alone some street-cred-less author who pulled an entire series of books out of the clear blue sky. It's about vampires, for crying out loud! I knew I wouldn't like it.
But what's a girl to do? How many times per year can I read the same John Grisham novels, or the Nicholas Sparks tear-jerkers, or the entire chronicles of Sherlock Holmes? It's only a book, it's not like I'd be taken in like everyone else. Robert Pattinson looks unshowered and doesn't do anything for me, anyway.
If you could have seen me, in a trance, walking around my house, ignoring everything, with a 4lb book permanently perched inches from my nose, you other Twilight-resistors would have been so disappointed. I was completely immersed.
Since I have a million Christmas projects and commitments, besides being a wife and mother of two, I couldn't very well drop everything and start on a Twilight catch-up mission. It took me a few days, not hours, to re-read the 498-page book, re-watch the original movie, and see New Moon - twice. Only after these tasks were finished could I start on New Moon the novel (which is a Christmas present for my son and will contain no dog-ears, thanks to the Edward Cullen bookmark I bought last week. Shhhh.). I'm about 300 pages in.
Now, because I'm me, of course I'm critical of the movies and books in some respects. As is the case with most adapted screenplays, the Twilight movie was nothing - NOTHING - compared to the book. In fact, watching the movie was almost like reading the Amazon summary, in hindsight.
As much as I hate to say it, since it undoubtedly comes off as jealous, lucky-witch hating, the girl who plays Bella in the movies has about as much acting range as a throw pillow. She's staggeringly beautiful, though, and it's a good thing - at least she has that to distract from her complete lack of facial expression, monotone voice, and inability to smile (even in the face of Edward Cullen! Imagine!).
The flip side is that Stephenie Meyer did a brilliant job on this series (I'll assume the last two are similar in quality to the first two). Though the adjective-heavy prose is ripe for ridicule (Edward's eyes are butterscotch. Topaz. Golden. Amber. WE GET IT, they're yellowish), and the female lead character is very obviously autobiographical, the story she spins is so consuming and forbidden that it draws you in. Somehow, you can feel the electricity between Bella and her blood-drinking soul mate, almost as though you had fallen in love with a vampire in grade eleven biology class, too.
I'm not enjoying New Moon as much as Twilight, partly because of the addition of the werewolf characters; it's just not interesting to me. I will finish it (because I started it), but I will need some assurances before I ever pick up a copy of Eclipse. Assurances of the Edward variety. You see, Robert Pattinson, once an unkept, overrated, awkward Londoner in my eyes, is now a brooding, sensitive heartthrob who secretly watches me sleep. (Probably.) (Yeah, he does.) Team Edward for life!
That's how good it is.
If you're a book lover who hasn't read the Twilight series yet, pick it up, even if only for the first installment. You'll be pleasantly surprised.
Anyway, one night months ago we put Twilight on the DVD player since there was nothing on television and, much to my surprise, I enjoyed it. I didn't salivate or palpitate or any of those typical reactions, but it was more entertaining than watching repeats of King of Queens. I still had no interest in reading the books, which, since I'm an avid reader, annoyed quite a few of my Twi-Hard friends.
Two weeks ago I found myself with nothing to read, and I started looking pretty hard at the Twilight book sitting on my son's bureau. "No, you won't read that. 'Cause then you'll have to read the whole series and you might like them and that would not be in keeping with your whole resistance movement," I told myself.
It's a fantasy novel, not my style. I won't even read Anne Rice, the undisputed queen of the undead, let alone some street-cred-less author who pulled an entire series of books out of the clear blue sky. It's about vampires, for crying out loud! I knew I wouldn't like it.
But what's a girl to do? How many times per year can I read the same John Grisham novels, or the Nicholas Sparks tear-jerkers, or the entire chronicles of Sherlock Holmes? It's only a book, it's not like I'd be taken in like everyone else. Robert Pattinson looks unshowered and doesn't do anything for me, anyway.
If you could have seen me, in a trance, walking around my house, ignoring everything, with a 4lb book permanently perched inches from my nose, you other Twilight-resistors would have been so disappointed. I was completely immersed.
Since I have a million Christmas projects and commitments, besides being a wife and mother of two, I couldn't very well drop everything and start on a Twilight catch-up mission. It took me a few days, not hours, to re-read the 498-page book, re-watch the original movie, and see New Moon - twice. Only after these tasks were finished could I start on New Moon the novel (which is a Christmas present for my son and will contain no dog-ears, thanks to the Edward Cullen bookmark I bought last week. Shhhh.). I'm about 300 pages in.
Now, because I'm me, of course I'm critical of the movies and books in some respects. As is the case with most adapted screenplays, the Twilight movie was nothing - NOTHING - compared to the book. In fact, watching the movie was almost like reading the Amazon summary, in hindsight.
As much as I hate to say it, since it undoubtedly comes off as jealous, lucky-witch hating, the girl who plays Bella in the movies has about as much acting range as a throw pillow. She's staggeringly beautiful, though, and it's a good thing - at least she has that to distract from her complete lack of facial expression, monotone voice, and inability to smile (even in the face of Edward Cullen! Imagine!).
The flip side is that Stephenie Meyer did a brilliant job on this series (I'll assume the last two are similar in quality to the first two). Though the adjective-heavy prose is ripe for ridicule (Edward's eyes are butterscotch. Topaz. Golden. Amber. WE GET IT, they're yellowish), and the female lead character is very obviously autobiographical, the story she spins is so consuming and forbidden that it draws you in. Somehow, you can feel the electricity between Bella and her blood-drinking soul mate, almost as though you had fallen in love with a vampire in grade eleven biology class, too.
I'm not enjoying New Moon as much as Twilight, partly because of the addition of the werewolf characters; it's just not interesting to me. I will finish it (because I started it), but I will need some assurances before I ever pick up a copy of Eclipse. Assurances of the Edward variety. You see, Robert Pattinson, once an unkept, overrated, awkward Londoner in my eyes, is now a brooding, sensitive heartthrob who secretly watches me sleep. (Probably.) (Yeah, he does.) Team Edward for life!
That's how good it is.
If you're a book lover who hasn't read the Twilight series yet, pick it up, even if only for the first installment. You'll be pleasantly surprised.
Parenting Perspective
Last week, I got news that an old friend of mine is expecting her first child. I sent a note to congratulate her, and we ended up speaking for awhile on the phone. At one point in the conversation, she asked, "do you have any advice?"
Talk about a loaded question. Where does one even start when asked to advise about matters of child-rearing? I'm certainly not an expert ( as is evident in my quickly-greying hair). I tried to remember which pieces of advice were given to me when I was pregnant, and which of those actually helped, when it occurred to me how silly it all is. Similac or breast? Bouncy chair or Exersaucer? Or both? Or neither?! It's all so much to take in.
My son was born the first Friday in May, and I knew nothing about parenting that day. I had held an infant only once before he was born, and never changed a diaper. I’d read lots of books, yes, but the real learning can't happen until you do it yourself. So, what did I learn?
That it's basically impossible to “sleep when they sleep.”
That the things you swore you would NEVER do - for me it was carry snacks everywhere (“they can eat at mealtime,” I sniffed) - are the things that save your sanity.
That you can never watch the news, or hear about a hurting child, the same way ever again. That there really is no need for things like electric diaper-wipe warmers or $600 strollers. On the other hand, you can never have enough spit-up cloths.
That they don't care what they're wearing and expensive, designer baby clothes are not made for them; they're made for mothers trying to impress other mothers.
That some days you might never figure out why they are crying. Sometimes they cry because they’re babies.
That you will do things for your children (ask favors, risk embarrassment) that you would never do for yourself.
That it is harder watching your kids navigate middle school than it was navigating middle school yourself.
That sleep deprivation really is a form of torture.
That paying a babysitter every couple of Saturday nights is cheaper than paying a marriage counselor.
That when your gut tells you they are sick, or something’s wrong, they are and it is.
That many battles are not worth fighting, but others definitely are, and sometimes one kind masquerades as the other.
That you’d better have a Plan B when you Count To Three.
That it’s okay to surrender to the mess. You can clean it up when they move out.
That there are things that love can’t fix.
That an otherwise healthy child, if food is made available, will not starve to death because they won't eat their supper - so chill out.
That a teenager (the classification of which should also include pre-teen) is like something out of a horror movie — their real self is somewhere within that new and scary shell, and the trick is to keep talking to the person you know is in there. They will hear you. It just might take a few years before they acknowledge that they’ve heard.
What I have learned most recently is that it all goes too fast. And if I could change anything I would have spent less time worrying that I was doing it wrong and much more time reveling in all that was right. Eighteen years of our lives and theirs are spent under the same roof (well, unless they come back…). Eighteen years, give or take, against a lifetime that spans many times that length. It is a blink. A moment. Then they move on.
Eighteen is an arbitrary line. By law and custom my sons somehow become adults at midnight. They can serve in the military and vote and sign their own consent forms on their birthday, even though the day before they were too young. It is hardly a finite line; most adults have parents who "parent” them, and I don’t plan to stop guiding my boys the morning of their birthday. But, it is also a bright and important milestone. They will be ready to head off into the world, and hopefully I'll be ready to let them.
So, to my pregnant friend, I say the important things to learn can't be found in a book. Only when you're driving your 5'2"-tall son to his first dance will you laugh at how much you agonized over which brand of diapers to use. And, if history is any indication, dropping him off at that dance will be a welcome memory the day I leave him at college.
And that's about the best I can do.
Talk about a loaded question. Where does one even start when asked to advise about matters of child-rearing? I'm certainly not an expert ( as is evident in my quickly-greying hair). I tried to remember which pieces of advice were given to me when I was pregnant, and which of those actually helped, when it occurred to me how silly it all is. Similac or breast? Bouncy chair or Exersaucer? Or both? Or neither?! It's all so much to take in.
My son was born the first Friday in May, and I knew nothing about parenting that day. I had held an infant only once before he was born, and never changed a diaper. I’d read lots of books, yes, but the real learning can't happen until you do it yourself. So, what did I learn?
That it's basically impossible to “sleep when they sleep.”
That the things you swore you would NEVER do - for me it was carry snacks everywhere (“they can eat at mealtime,” I sniffed) - are the things that save your sanity.
That you can never watch the news, or hear about a hurting child, the same way ever again. That there really is no need for things like electric diaper-wipe warmers or $600 strollers. On the other hand, you can never have enough spit-up cloths.
That they don't care what they're wearing and expensive, designer baby clothes are not made for them; they're made for mothers trying to impress other mothers.
That some days you might never figure out why they are crying. Sometimes they cry because they’re babies.
That you will do things for your children (ask favors, risk embarrassment) that you would never do for yourself.
That it is harder watching your kids navigate middle school than it was navigating middle school yourself.
That sleep deprivation really is a form of torture.
That paying a babysitter every couple of Saturday nights is cheaper than paying a marriage counselor.
That when your gut tells you they are sick, or something’s wrong, they are and it is.
That many battles are not worth fighting, but others definitely are, and sometimes one kind masquerades as the other.
That you’d better have a Plan B when you Count To Three.
That it’s okay to surrender to the mess. You can clean it up when they move out.
That there are things that love can’t fix.
That an otherwise healthy child, if food is made available, will not starve to death because they won't eat their supper - so chill out.
That a teenager (the classification of which should also include pre-teen) is like something out of a horror movie — their real self is somewhere within that new and scary shell, and the trick is to keep talking to the person you know is in there. They will hear you. It just might take a few years before they acknowledge that they’ve heard.
What I have learned most recently is that it all goes too fast. And if I could change anything I would have spent less time worrying that I was doing it wrong and much more time reveling in all that was right. Eighteen years of our lives and theirs are spent under the same roof (well, unless they come back…). Eighteen years, give or take, against a lifetime that spans many times that length. It is a blink. A moment. Then they move on.
Eighteen is an arbitrary line. By law and custom my sons somehow become adults at midnight. They can serve in the military and vote and sign their own consent forms on their birthday, even though the day before they were too young. It is hardly a finite line; most adults have parents who "parent” them, and I don’t plan to stop guiding my boys the morning of their birthday. But, it is also a bright and important milestone. They will be ready to head off into the world, and hopefully I'll be ready to let them.
So, to my pregnant friend, I say the important things to learn can't be found in a book. Only when you're driving your 5'2"-tall son to his first dance will you laugh at how much you agonized over which brand of diapers to use. And, if history is any indication, dropping him off at that dance will be a welcome memory the day I leave him at college.
And that's about the best I can do.
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