Movies

Movies have always stayed with me. Affected me.


Long after a film is over and the credits have scrolled, I'm often still completely caught up in the characters and plot lines of the film.

I remember movies affecting me even as a child.


After watching the Black Stallion for the first time I spent the next two weeks on my hands and knees galloping around the house like a horse.


I was intelligent enough to realise that behaviour like that at school would land me in the nut house so I didn't do it at school. I don't think. But apparently I was not intelligent enough realise that it was far closer to my dream of owning a real horse to identify with the boy in the movie ... not the actual horse.


But, at the time I suppose I was so in love with the Black Stallion that I wanted to be a horse. I wanted to be the Black Stallion.


But I couldn't keep it up for long because it was really, really dorky.


And I got really sore hands and knees.


And after watching Annie I used to dream that some rich man like Daddy Warbucks would come along and adopt me and let me live in his giant house and swim in his giant pool. But unlike Annie, I wasn't an orphan - I had wonderful loving parents - and if some rich old guy wanted to adopt me that would be just a little strange. And probably illegal.


So then I just wanted to sing "Tomorrow" and "Maybe" all the time. Because, who didn't?


I remember being so SO sad after watching Dead Poets Society that I couldn't walk out of the movie theatre. That movie ripped my heart out. And it made me want to go to a boarding school and wear tweed and ride a bike down a big hill and scare away birds and act in a Shakespearean play.


The Princess Bride turned me into a hopeless romantic. Forever.


And seriously, was there a kid alive on the planet who didn't want to learn Karate after watching the Karate Kid?


My brothers and our cousins would have Karate fights for hours on end after watching that movie. Untrained, unsupervised, full on Karate battles. And I wasn't "in" on the action because I was a girl so I was jealous and acted it out in my room. Yeah, I sure did.


And I still want to learn Karate.


But I'm not sure what's more idiotic. Running around the house as a child on my hands and knees pretending I'm a horse, or signing up for adult Karate classes.


Seriously ... some ships just have to sail, you know what I mean?


But I am taking Jackie Chan to see the "new" Karate Kid (ha ha ha ...) and because I know he's going to want to do Karate after he sees it I've been keeping my eyes open for a place he can learn (ya know, around other people, not in front of his bedroom mirror).


So today I saw a place. A cute, small, authentic place. Complete with a dude that looked exactly like Mr. Miyagi - no joke - and I swear there were bonsai trees. OK. Perhaps the bonsai trees were figments of my imagination.


But my little Jackie Chan's excitement was real. He's totally gonna rock at Karate.


AND ... if that wasn't enough "movie magic" for one day ...


Jackie Chan and I went to see the Harry Potter Exhibit at the Science Centre today. I know I was like a hundred years old when the first Harry Potter movie came out, but I tell you the truth - I didn't breathe the first time I watched that movie. I was hooked from the first frame.


So I can honestly say that I got a little choked up at the exhibit.


Like choked.


It was so cool.


And I'm obviously a total nerd.


But whatever.


At least I wasn't galloping around on my hands and knees.


I'm fully aware of not crossing lines anymore.

Randoms ...

Things have been rather uneventful in our home lately.

Unless of course you count the other night when Bruce Lee took off his pull up and shouted "I'm nake ... I'm nake" at the top of his lungs. And, because we were watching "Camp Rock" ... yes, we have a seven year old in the house ... Bruce Lee decided to join in the "final jam" by using his pee-pee as a guitar.

Yup.

As he wailed away on his "guitar" he kept saying "I play my guitar Mommy. I play my guitar Daddy."

He even had the power stance down pat.

And ...

I fell UP the stairs at the subway station yesterday. (Which obviously didn't happen in our home, but still, worth a mention I think.) UP the stairs. In front of lots of people. It was rush hour. Awesome.

I blame the flip flops.

Another noteworthy happenstance ... at the doctors office yesterday I had to have some tests done. The usual things. Pee in a cup. Give some blood. You know, all those fun things.

The peeing in a cup test is never good. And yesterday was no exception. I won't go into details or anything but I will say that I really hope they mop the floors of the washrooms every day. Enough said.

When it came time to give blood I told the woman with the giant needle that I was really hungry and that I might pass out. She laughed. She obviously didn't believe me. So I just closed my eyes and focused on breathing while she removed eight gallons of my blood.

I didn't faint.

But when I got up to leave I did take the chair with me. As in, my big hips were stuck in the stupid chair and it was stuck to me and came with me as I tried to leave. (In my defense the chair wasn't a normal armchair. It was a "giving blood" armchair with the arms both angled inwards thereby leaving little room for a normal sized person to get in and out. In retrospect I do remember entering the chair sideways. I was not thinking clearly - clearly - as I exited the chair, probably due to the eight gallons of blood I'd just lost, and all the concentrating on not fainting.)

I left as quickly as possible after removing the chair from my back end ... all the laughing was not good for my self esteem.

And because that's basically it for the past few weeks I thought I'd share with you some jokes that Jackie Chan made up.

Most of his jokes are quite lame and cause a dull ache in that part of your brain that's supposed to be reserved for feigning interest in things like articles in the New Yorker, and Quantum Physics, but these two are rather amusing ...

Question: What does it feel like to get bit by a T-Rex?

Answer: CRAP

And my new favorite:

Question: What do you call a boomerang that doesn't work?

Answer: A stick

Question: What do you call a boomerang that does work?

Answer: A boomerang

I'm not totally convinced that the boomerang joke is an original.

Send in the Clowns ...

I've decided that I probably would have made a pretty good clown.

Not because I'm fantastically hilarious or anything. I just think I'd be good at making a total fool of myself on stage in front of thousands of people ... if I was covered in makeup and seven layers of strange patterned polyester.

I enjoy being on stage. I can be a tad overbearing at times. And I fall down. I'm clumsy. What other requirements are there really?

I realize that I just never had the chance to try my hand at being a clown. The opportunity was never there for me.

Yesterday our family went to the Circus Festival at the Harbourfront. It was pretty fantastic.

The highlight was the afternoon show on the main stage. It was a showcase of all kinds of various circus acts ... all kinds of acrobatics, balancing acts, a dancing couple who were also quite bendy, a guy who danced around with a broom (which sounds lame but it was really quite fascinating), and some clowns of course.

And the highlight of the afternoon for my husband? Jen Georgeopoulos - acrobatics in a hula hoop high above main stage in a spandex outfit - need I say more?

(Actually, when we arrived at the stage and saw a hula hoop dangling from the ceiling of the stage I think Curtis was secretly excited that Pink would be making a surprise appearance that afternoon to preform her Grammy Act again. Not sure what I'm talking about? I truly am sorry. Especially if you're male. Look it up.)

Anyway ... the circus show was great and I loved it and the boys loved it.

And I now believe I would have made a great clown.

This got me thinking about my own boys ...

Jackie Chan was enthralled with the hip hop dancing and all the acrobatics. I started to wonder what he will choose do when he gets older. What will he take to? What "thing" will be his passion?

It's a big decision as a parent to decide what activities you should place your kids in. Piano? Singing lessons? Drama? Dance? Robot building? Martial Arts? Swimming? Skating? Hockey? Soccer? Baseball?

You see my dilemma ...

Jackie Chan is at that age where we want to put him in things to get him involved and find a passion and grow ... but it's a really hard decision.

If we put him in gymnastics, will he love it enough to pursue it and become part of Cirque du Soleil? If we put him in dance and drama, will he make it to Broadway? If we put him in a sport, will he make it to the professional level?

Does any of that matter? It shouldn't ... but shouldn't your passions inspire your dreams?

What if we put him in skating lessons when what he's really good at is dancing? And what if we never know because he never had the chance?

Or send him off to Karate when what he should be doing is acting?

And what if all the things we want to put him in are really our own personal dreams, long abandoned, now being forced on our children so we can live vicariously?

Sure, we can ask him what he'd like to do ... but Jackie Chan changes his mind more often than his underwear.

But does his whole future depend on what activities we decide to put him in now?

And, if he spends most of his childhood and youth passionately exploring a certain "thing" (music, dance, sports, art, whatever ...) and then decides later in life that he wants to walk away from that ... was it all a waste of time? A waste of precious time?

(You see how my mind can take a perfectly wonderful day with the family and turn it in to some kind of major drama ...)

Being a parent is complicated. Right down to extra curricular activity choices.

And to think ... a slightly different decision on my parents part and I might have been part of a travelling circus.

Beyond the Comfort Zone

I'm a firm believer that people should do things out of their normal comfort zone when presented with the opportunity to do so. For that reason I have done the following things (the list is far from complete) over the course of my thirty-three years ...

1) White Water Rafting - Do I need to expand on this?? It was crazy fun. Wicked scary. And exceeded all my expectations. I almost died, but really, I was white water rafting - it's like a given that some near death experience will occur. That said, I'm pretty sure that most of my companions on the trip would deny the fact that I almost died. It all happened so fast. I was trapped under the boat after falling out - but kept my wits and found my way to the edge of the boat as previously instructed - and was pulled from the raging waters by the rather attractive boating guy instructor man. It rocked.

2) Hot Yoga - This was a more recent venture. I'm not flexible at all. I'm not sure I can truly get the message across at how completely in-flexible I really am ... you'll just have to trust me. And I'm not really "yoga shaped" ... if that's even a thing. But my wonderful "M" told me to come to her class, so I did, and it was really hot. The temperature was really really HOT. But I survived and have been a few times and though bending and stretching whist sweating and looking at myself in a giant mirror do little for my self-esteem, I'm always amazed at how great I feel at the end of the class.

3) Wearing Pink -I used to wear a lot of black, and grey, and other dark shades. It was a bit of a phase. It was kind of a "dark" time for me. Literally. One Christmas I even gave everyone their gifts in black gift bags with black tissue paper ... I think that was the straw for my Mom. So, against my will, I took the advice of many, many people in my life and branched out and started to wear some brighter colours. The results have been positive. I look good in pink.

4) Writing ... for people to read - I wrote a lot in my younger days. Poetry mostly. But I would journal a lot. A LOT. It helped with the crazy. But I didn't ever let anyone read anything I'd written. I stopped writing altogether for a while. This was largely due to the fact that at the end of the day, TV is just so appealing - it's hard to be motivated to do anything else when there is Glee to watch. But I missed writing ... and so the birth of this blog.

5) Being unclothed in the hallway of a hospital - This one was unintentional. But it happened. When I was in the hospital giving birth to Jackie Chan I needed to pee and I had no one around to help so I decided to get myself out of my "holding room" (due to the fact that a million babies all decided to be born on the same night as Jackie Chan there were NO nice birthing suites available at the hospital, so I was stuck in some broom closet with a bed). Wearing nothing but a gross hospital robe, and pulling my IV contraption along with me I started out for the washroom across the hall. Halfway to my destination I doubled over in pain like you cannot imagine and because my gross hospital robe was untied, it fell away from my body leaving me completely unclothed, attached to an IV, having a contraction in the hallway of a very crowded hospital, while people with balloons and teddy bears passed by. I am not exaggerating. At all.

6) Eating alone in a restaurant - It's strange at first. But once you get used to it, it's kind of cool. And I'm not talking about McDonald's ... I mean a real, sit down, order from a menu restaurant. You just have to ignore the stares from the other patrons who assume you're either a total nut job, a serial killer, or really smelly ... or all three. It's pretty liberating.

So there you have it.

A small list showing a small percentage of things that I have done in my life that - at the time - completely outside of my comfort zone.

Perhaps I'll expand on this list in time ...

A great loss of blood ... or a tree ...

I tend to overreact. And I'm a bit heavy on the drama sometimes.

I'm always telling my husband that communication helps limit the overreactions and the drama. Sometimes the communication he provides is effective and sometimes it creates a larger more out of control reaction from me.

For example.

At the end of my work day yesterday I just wanted to be home. I just wanted to get home as fast as I could to see my family and eat (not necessarily in that order ... I was really hungry). So I sent Curtis a text asking if he could pick me up.

He responded with:

"No walk I have the boys"

This struck me as being a bit on the cold side so I pleasantly responded with:

"OK. Are u OK?

His unhelpfully brief response to that question was:

"Ya I will talk to you when you get home"

Now a normal person would see that response and smile and enjoy walking home in the sunshine after a long day stuck behind a desk, imagining a quiet lovely evening at home with the family. I am not a normal person ...

I completely freak out.

I'm convinced in an instant that there is something horribly wrong. And, because Curtis has said he's OK, it must be something else ... unless he's lying to me ...

And then the scenarios begin.

Scenario #1:

One of the boys must have some gaping head wound. There is probably a great deal of blood loss.

But I quickly dismiss that scenario because if there was some huge bloody emergency at home, I'm certain that Curtis would not have said "I will talk to you when you get home" I'm sure he would have said "I will meet you at Sick Kids in five minutes ... the only reason I'm texting you back is because we are waiting for the ambulance" So I relax a little.

Then ....

Scenario #2:

Some outrageous damage happened to the house during the day. Maybe the big tree in the backyard FELL on the house and smashed our sliding doors.

But again, I think this is probably a silly assumption. Curtis probably would have mentioned a tree in the living room.

I'm still panicking a bit so I decide to call him as I walk home. Talking to him will ease my mind a bit and calm my racing heart. And since I'm having difficulty breathing, some calming words of assurance will keep me from collapsing on the sidewalk.

So I call. And there is no answer. NO ANSWER.

So of course ...

Scenario #3:

There is some crazy crackhead in my house and he has my family at gun point. He is currently disconnecting the computer and stereo and PVR so he can sell them for drugs. That must be it. It totally explains the short texts and the reason my husband couldn't answer the phone.

I can't dismiss this thought ... it's too real in my head. So instead I try to walk faster but thanks to the above mentioned scenario, my legs now have the strength of Jello wrapped in cellophane and I'm unable to move at a faster pace. I can barely walk.

And before I can compose myself, another thought hits me:

Scenario #4:

Curtis is home and everything is relatively fine. Except that the boys are wild and running around and screaming and Curtis has decided that he's had enough. He is no longer able to stay in this crazy house and is packing his things to leave.

I'm fairly certain that Curtis wouldn't want to leave without some kind of warning. But I still can't shake the feeling of doom that has consumed me.

There was something wrong. I could just feel it.

And then ...

I was almost home when I noticed a familiar person riding a familiar bike with a familiar child in his arms. The child was shouting, "Mommy look! I'm with Grandpa. I'm with Grandpa!"

It took me a moment to shake off my state of despair and allow feelings of relief wash over me.

There was nothing wrong at home. The boys were fine. Curtis was fine. My in-laws were there and Curtis was just visiting with them. Bruce Lee was riding around on a bike with his Grandpa and Jackie Chan was in the living room (sans tree) bouncing around and chattering about eating freezes at lunch (which would explain the bouncing around).

All was well.

No overreaction necessary.

I did, however, scold Curtis for not being more clear with his texting because - obviously - it was his lack of communication that caused the string of horrible scenarios in my head. Obviously.

And told him that he should be more clear in the future.

He just smiled and said OK.

He's the best.

Through the eyes of a child ...

I can be shallow sometimes. I admit it.

I can worry way too much about my appearance and stress out completely if I'm having an "off" day in the hair or wardrobe department (which these days happens more often than not ... I'm basically a walking ball of stress and worry ... all because of my deep, deep shallowness).

Truth? I miss the frivolity of my younger days.

I miss trips to the spa for manicures and pedicures. I used to love sitting back like some overindulged princess while someone worked away on my hands and feet until they were perfectly groomed.

I miss facials. That glorious feeling of lying on a table while someone extracted all the nasty imperfections on my face and then smothered me in wonderful smelling moisturizer until my skin was as soft as butter.

I miss massages. (I thought that marriage was supposed to guarantee you a massage at least once a week. Not the case ...)

I miss not feeling guilty about the cost of getting my hair done. I've already admitted my shallowness ... I cannot give up on my hair. I refuse. But I do cringe every time I have to pay after a few hours of coiffing at the salon.

My point is, I have too much responsibility to be able to spend time and money simply pampering myself. The family, the bills, the house, the car ... all have to take priority. I know that. I'm OK with that. I just miss the other stuff. And I feel that I have to maintain a level of appearance and upkeep without external help ... which is really difficult.

So the other night I'm lying down with Bruce Lee ... we're reading stories together and it's all wonderful and cuddly and utopic. He's looking at me with his big bluish eyes and smiling and he lifts his hand to my face and is stroking my cheek ... and then he stops ...

He looks deeper at my face with unbroken concentration and then looks into my eyes and lifts his tiny little finger to my forehead and points and says, "Ewwww, gross" and touches the mole on my forehead.

Then he smiles.

Like he's discovered something that I would certainly want to know of and remove because surely it was only there because it had gone on undiscovered until now ...

And says, "Mommy, ewwww gross, Mommy ... ewwww" as he nods his little head waiting for me to nod back in agreement.

Which I do ... because how can I not?

And I say, "yeah, that's just Mommy's mole."

Which for some reason makes him laugh.

Which makes me laugh.

And then he sighs and puts his little arm over me and closes his eyes.

I realize that he doesn't care if I have a gross mole on my forehead (that really should be removed at some point), or that my nails aren't done, or my face has broken out in a bunch of little bumps I have NO IDEA what to do about, or that my "comfy around the house clothes" have toothpaste and bacon grease on them .... he just loves me for me. Plain and simple.

And I know that Jackie Chan and Curtis do too. And pretty much most of the people in my life.

So why do I get so caught up in my appearance?

So as I lay there will my little cherub I vow to care less about how I look and stress less about the superficial stuff.

I leave his room proud and happy and excited about my new outlook on life.

And then I look at myself in mirror .... and make a mental note to pick up a whitening kit for my teeth.

The problem with summer ...

It will soon be bathing suit season.

It is not a time of year I look forward to much.

While I love summer because of BBQ's, vacations with family, camps for the kids and the laid back feel that sort of naturally accompanies the season, the very mention of the word summer strikes fear into my core.

The thought of summer does not spark daydreams of endless days on the beach or long lazy walks in short shorts, tank tops and flip flops ... not anymore anyway ... not at age thirty three.

Because ... it's bathing suit season.

Because I have to leave behind my jeans and sweaters that hide the imperfections and put myself "OUT THERE" for all to see.

Because, obviously, Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee want to go swimming. They want to swim whenever they can. As often as they can. And their combined weight matches that of my right thigh, so what's the big deal for them, right?

They don't have to worry about stretch marks or cellulite.

Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee can still RUN in their bathing suits and people will think it's cute.

I find at the end of each summer day my muscles are extremely tense from trying to control the amount of jiggle each part of my body is capable of.

And, to make matters worse, when I'm not in some horrible swimwear I'm expected to wear shorts (or some kind of comparable clothing item) ... and my goodness, who the heck came up with shorts???

(I should say at this point that I wasn't always so offended by shorts on my body, but a few decades and two kids have passed since that time and now I'm forced to get by with capri's and that means I'm basically embracing mom-hood and have given up on ever having attractive legs again not to mention the fact that I don't care what anyone says, capri's are just as hot as wearing pants, so really, what is the point?)

And then there is the whole problem of footwear in the summer. I have a foot odor problem ... most of the time ... and summer just makes that whole scenario worse.

Seriously ... have you ever had to go to someones house in the summer thinking it was for an outdoor BBQ so you wore your really cute but stinky sandals because it didn't matter because you were going to be outside for the night only to arrive as it starts raining so you're forced to take off the stinky sandals and casually ask for the bathroom so you can go and try to find a way to wash your feet so you don't kill everyone at the BBQ?

Yeah, I didn't think so ...

Apparently I am the only one on the planet who has this level of stress over clothing and footwear in the summer.

But my kids LOVE the summer. And I love playing in pools with them and running around outside with them and coming up with great adventures we can tackle together during those long lazy days.

So, I choose to squeeze myself into whatever piece of waterproof spandex is currently passing for my bathing suit, or put on my most comfortable pair of capri's (aka: mom-pants), suspend my ego for the season, and run around making memories for my kids ... and for me ...

I'm offending someone with this post ... I know ...

I'm not a fan of facial hair.

I think beards are just all kinds of nasty.

It's not socially acceptable for women to grow out leg hair and parade it around for all to see. So why is it OK for men to grow nasty hair all over their faces and walk around in public? (Again with the double standard. Remember the whole topless fiasco?)

Facial hair is just strange.

I don't get "playoff" facial hair in any sport. How does having MORE hair on your body help your performance? And really, when your attempts at a playoff beard make you look like a nine year old boy who is entering puberty way too early not yet allowed to shave, well, it's just wrong.

(Take notes, Sidney Crosby, take notes. Your weak attempts at playoff facial hair cost your team - possibly - the Stanley Cup. Think about it.)

I had a boss once who had a mustache.

I'm not a huge fan of mustaches ... however ... I do love my uncle who has a mustache. I'm obviously not incapable of seeing beyond the nasty facial hair.

In the case of my boss, however, I often couldn't see past the fuzzy growth. Probably because I didn't love him.

I would often fixate on his mustache when he was talking and because I would stare at it for so long it would appear to grow and I would suddenly become terrified that it was going to expand so much that it would take over his entire face and he would look like Michael J. Fox in Teenwolf.

One day while I was staring at him I noticed something was lodged between the wiry strands. I was totally grossed out thinking he had some lunch leftovers stashed away for a mid-afternoon snack when I realized I was way off.

It was not food.

It was a GIANT booger.

Caught in his mustache. A giant, gross, booger just stuck there.

I couldn't look away. And I couldn't just let him walk away without warning him. But how on earth do you come up with a way to say "um, you have a booger caught in your 'stache" and not drop dead of embarrassment for you AND the person in peril? It's not possible.

So I didn't say anything. I am a horrible person.

I am a horrible person because five minutes later he announced that he was off to a meeting with a whole bunch of executives. The big guns. With a booger in his 'stache.

There is a special place in the depths of the earth for people like me, I'm sure.

Down Memory Lane ...

This morning I thought about the cottage. My cottage.

OUR cottage ...

We decided as a family to sell the cottage a few years ago and I don't think any of us have regretted that decision for a second ... but we have allowed ourselves to miss it and remember the memories and the good times.

Here are a few ...

One day while bailing out one of the fishing boats tied to the dock, my brother, who was no more than five at the time, happened upon a GIANT snapping turtle.

My grandfather decided that the turtle must die lest it EAT all of the fish and children who swam in the lake on a daily basis. So we spent hours trying to lure it out from under the dock ... using raw hot dogs. I'm not sure who decided raw hot dogs would be the thing that the turtle would leave the safety of its lair for, but that's what we used. At least, the ones I didn't eat.

Yeah, that's right. Raw hot dogs.

The plan worked and all the kids got to stand around and watch while my grandpa hacked the turtle to death with an axe.

Then there was a time when all the children staying at various cottages decided to raid our parents cupboards and pantries for cookies, treats and juice ... and then we sold the goods back to the parents so we could take the money to the corner store to buy candy. And the parents were happy to participate in our scam. Awesome.

There was always some craziness happening with bats. My dad running around in his "nighttime attire" with broom in hand ... which he used to fling the bat onto my head. He eventually conquered the bat and all was well.

Except that I have a terrible fear of bats. And warm fuzzy leathery hats.

We would spend hours telling ghost stories to the point where we were too terrified to move. And inevitably the power would go out. And we would scream ourselves hoarse and then laugh until our sides hurt.

There were "almost drownings" and near death experiences. In particular, a trailer - filled with kids - sliding off the dirt road and rolling down a hill. But no one was ever really hurt too badly.

There were giant campfires where we would sing and play instruments and the kids would make up skits that we would preform ... over and over again.

And there was always my grandpa ... Always coming up with tricks and ways to scare us or cause us to faint. Like the time he put on a strange wig and took his teeth out and jumped out at my brother who was so scared he fell down without even screaming.

There were ghosts in the bathrooms. And the cottages. Obviously.

There was hide and go seek in the forest. And water-skiing. So many people learned to ski with my grandpa or my dad behind the wheel of the boat.

There were trips to the dump to see the bears. (It was much more exciting than it sounds ... trust me).

There were trips to Bancroft for Dairy Queen. Trips to Madoc for laundry. And trips to the hospital.

We caught frogs and snakes and minnows and occasionally ... turtles.

There were fishing trips that seemed like more trouble than they were worth. We rarely caught anything - unless you count my cousin hooking his fishing lure on my uncle. But those are the trips that we still talk about.

There were long lazy days sitting on the beach. And long rainy days watching "The Sound of Music" over and over again. And Monopoly tournaments that never ended.

In more recent days those of us who lived our childhood at the cottage watched our own children splash and play in the lake and ride around like hooligans on various motorized vehicles. And enjoy the magic of the cottage.

Selling the cottage was the right thing to do. But I will never forget that I - that we - had a great deal of fun at the cottage.

We made really good memories.

Variety ... the spice of life ...

Jackie Chan is colour blind.

At least, we think he is. All signs and symptoms point in that direction.

It's problematic.

His Jr. Kindergarten teacher was not impressed with the fact that he didn't know his colours and refused to accept that there was a chance he was colour blind until he was officially tested. We didn't get him tested. I'm pretty sure the teacher believed he was just lazy and dumb. We didn't like her much ...

The colour blindness is problematic when trying to determine if he's ill and we should be concerned.

The other day he was telling us that his tummy hurt and his poo was purple. Purple??

Obviously I was troubled by this ... so I looked at his next poo (which, again, he said was purple). It was light brown. Nothing to be overly concerned about.

He will often say that his pee is green.

Or that when he blows his nose it's all blue and grey.

It's confusing yes, but mostly funny.

His interpretation of colours and the fact that he has only ever known a world with many many different cultures all living and attending school in the same area has been quite amusing.

For example ...

One day he was telling us about his best friend at school and that his best friend "is dark brown."

We laughed a bit to ourselves about his description of his best friend but we were really more interested in this "new" concept of a best friend. So ... we asked him about the other kids in the class - meaning who were some of his other friends - and he replied:

"Orange, green, yellow, black and light brown."

For all you do ...

This is a shout out to all Mom's out there ... Happy Mother's Day.

I hope that you were all treated in a extra special way yesterday. Even if a meal in a really nice five star restaurant didn't happen - I hope that you at least didn't have to cook and do the dishes.

I hope your families thanked you for all the HARD work you do. Holding the family unit together through thick and thin.

For knowing where to find "my favourite shirt with the dragon on it ..." to "the boxers that don't pull and dig in ..." to "MY BROBEE" and even where to find "that piece of paper with all the numbers on it ... it's important, it's my Football Picks ..."

For dealing with fevers and barf and poop on the floor.

For breaking up fights.

For knowing that "DO NOT PUT YOUR FINGERS IN YOUR BUM WHILE I'M TRYING TO WIPE" is not an unusual thing to have to say. A lot.

For knowing that bubble wrap and helmets are not always the answer ... they will get hurt eventually.

For dealing with heartbreak and tears and pain. Emotional and physical.

For laughing when you really need to cry. And crying when you've done all you can ...

For organizing and planning ... and then improvising and making it up as you go along.

For knowing when to be firm. And knowing when to let it slide.

For finally admitting you are not always right.

For knowing when to hug and hold on. And knowing when to let go.

For teaching.

And for always learning ...

The Race

When can you refer to yourself as a runner?

I run. But I don't know if I can tell people I'm a runner. Like ... when you play those "getting to know you games" I want to know if I can say: "I'm short. I really like deep fried food and musicals. And, I'm a runner."

At the advice of other runners - real runners - I entered myself in a couple of 5K races last year (I use the phrase "last year" loosely). The first race I ever ran was HORRIBLE. I can't even come up with a comparison. It was just awful.

I was cold. Very cold. So I was slower than I might have been on any normal daily run. But still. It was so awful having so many people pass me.

What is that about???

I didn't feel the companionship and love and overwhelming sense of community I had heard about. I didn't feel encouraged or inspired. I felt large. And slow. And like everyone within a ten mile radius could hear me breathing. Not even my playlist that I'd spent the better part of three days putting together was effective in drowning out my labored gasps for air.

As I was running - cursing the day I'd ever decided that running with a thousand other people was a good idea - I thought back to the day I'd watched my sister-in-law run in her first half-marathon.

She was awesome. There was so much energy in the air that day. People on the sidelines were cheering and jumping up and down and encouraging people by name as they ran by ... which seemed odd. My first thought was that the spectators around me must watch a lot of half-marathons to know all these runners by name. My second thought was that the runners all had a LOT of the same friends. Then I realized that first names were printed on the bibs ... clever.

It was really cool watching the race unfold in front of me.

And as the runners passed me by I noticed that they were sometimes alone and sometimes in groups of two or three or more.

And sometimes, right in front of me, a runner struggling alone would suddenly be joined by another runner, a stronger runner, who would run up alongside and grab onto the runner and shout something encouraging and pull them along until they found the strength to keep going.

And as I stood there, watching from the sidelines, tears started streaming down my face.

It was such a beautiful illustration of how life could be. How life should be.

Shouldn't we try our best to grab on to those who are struggling and pull them along? Even if it makes it a little harder for us in that moment ...

Shouldn't we want everyone to finish the race and finish it well?

I don't know if can really say I'm a runner or not. But I do know that there was a time in my life when I didn't think I could keep going. I had a lot of strong "runners" come along side during that season and pull me along and encourage me until I found the strength to keep going.

And I know that when I see someone struggling in the race that really matters I will try to pull them along with me as best I can.

I SWEAR I was cool ...

Most people manage to get through life with one or two or even a dozen monumental embarrassing moments. Me ... I currently sit at around two hundred. Literally.

I'm compelled to share them here with the hope that my pain and suffering may help some poor soul who is constantly the victim of misfortune and shame at parties and large gatherings ... or just walking home ...

My brother and I went to separate high schools. It's a long and rather uninteresting story so I won't bore you with details. It really had everything to do with a move in the early years of my high school education. We ended up living down the road from the high school that my brother attended.

On the days I was unfortunate enough to be without a car (yes, I was the kind of spoiled brat that got to drive to school ... a lot ... it was awesome) I had to take a transfer bus. A school bus.

It wasn't overly horrific as my friends - who still lived outside the city - would also have to take transfer buses so we would often end up together on the bus.

One particular day I was without friends on my way home on the bus. I was trying to ignore the idiotic grade nine conversation going on at the back of the bus about how they could scam their way into Dazed and Confused and was instead staring out the bus window dreaming about sun-tanning.

It was a hot day. And I, being the fashion icon that I was in high school, was wearing a short flowered skirt and cowboy boots. (I was going to do a whole paragraph explaining that my fashion choice that day was totally cool ... and that I lived in a smallish town at the time ... and "New Country" was HUGE because it was 1993 for crying out loud and everyone wore cowboy boots ... but I figured you would give me the benefit of the doubt and if you didn't you could do your own research ... or not ... but yeah, I really was cool).

Anyway ... I was on the bus, alone, staring at my giant backpack full of giant books for my stupid homework assignments for that day feeling irritated that I didn't have a car with music and air conditioning when I realized that the bus had stopped and all the grade nines were running across the parking lot to catch their transfer buses.

So I pulled my heavy backpack on while seated and jumped up and dashed off the bus. (I was pretty sure the bus driver was waiting for me to get off the bus so she could let out a giant fart ... she had a pained look on her face ...)

As I walked down the street I started noticing just how busy my street was at that time of day. There were a LOT of cars passing. And the cars would slow down to pass me as I walked down the road - which was good because I was afraid of being hit by some teenage lunatic out on a joyride after school with his friends.

I recognized some of the guys in the cars that passed ... my brothers friends with their parents or older siblings at the wheel ... they were leaning out and waving and hooting and banging the car door. I was smiling and waving and congratulating myself on being such a cool, wicked, older sister because my brothers friends all loved me. They were giving me the thumbs up. One car ... full of people I didn't even know ... pulled over to give me a high five.

I assumed the weather had thrown the entire city of Belleville into a state of euphoria.

When I got home I started up the steps to the front door when I noticed my bag was pulling on something at the bottom and on the sides.

I looked down and almost peed.

My skirt was fully hitched up at the back - held up by my backpack.

I had walked all the way home with my skirt caught up in my backpack. My bum had been hanging out all the way down the street.

I grew more and more ill as I relived the last fifteen minutes or so ... all the cars ... all the hooting ... all the high fives ... all because I was walking down the road in underwear and cowboy boots.

And I suddenly understood the pained look on the bus drivers face and vowed to punch her in the eye the next time I had to take the wretched bus for not pointing out to me that I was without coverage in the back "end zone" ...

Imagination

My kids have amazing and wonderful imaginations.

Jackie Chan can entertain himself for hours by simply playing in his imagination.

Bruce Lee needs props.

And Bruce Lee likes to colour. With markers. And while we try to encourage colouring on paper more often than not the couch becomes Bruce Lee's canvas and is magically transformed into an original work of art a la Crayola (thank goodness for super strong stain guard).

The other morning Bruce Lee was colouring - on paper. Quietly and happily. I was sipping coffee and watching some mind numbing cartoon when I remembered that it had been three days since I put the washing machine on and that the towels that were still in the washing machine were probably growing a new superpower mold and I should probably take care of them before the mold killed us all.

Bruce Lee was so content and absorbed in his artwork I decided to just slip out of the room and take care of the laundry.

I was downstairs for a while and it became very very quiet upstairs. Too quiet.

I was bracing myself for some new Jackson Pollock inspired creation on the walls or furniture before heading upstairs when I heard Bruce Lee call out for me ...

"Mommy!"

"What buddy? Whatcha doing?"

"Mommy!"

"I'm downstairs baby ... hang on."

"Hang on!" (Bruce Lee will often repeat whatever someone says to him.)

"I Hulk Mommy."

"I can't really hear you ... hold on ... I'm coming upstairs."

"I'm coming Mommy, I'm Hulk."

At this point I'm on my way upstairs when I hear Bruce Lee running towards the stairs shouting something about being the Hulk.

I smiled. He was learning to play in his imagination - heavily influenced by his older brother - but learning to imagine all the same.

As I came up the stairs Bruce Lee came running over and kept repeating "I Hulk Mommy, I Hulk. Look, see. I Hulk."

He was pointing down.

It took me a moment to put all the pieces together ...

Bruce Lee had coloured his feet completely green. With green marker. And most of one hand. And part of his cheek.

He had coloured his feet and hand and cheek green. To be the Hulk.

Seriously ... mornings just do not get any better ...

(He used GREEN marker. Bruce Lee is a very smart little boy.)

"Scents" and Sensibility ...

Once upon a time a tin of Root Beer Lip Balm almost ended my life.

True story.

When I was a little girl I had the biggest crush on a much older guy at my church. And when I say guy I really mean man. He was a man. A much older man. But I was hung up ... big time.

I used to position myself in the congregation at church so I could stare at him on the platform - no he was not the pastor - he was in the band. Even better.

I would wait by the door when we arrived on a Sunday morning so he would "accidentally" pass me by as he entered the building.

I would leave notes stuck to the windshield of his car ... notes written on Monopoly Money and old napkins and used Sunday School papers.

I had basically mastered the art of stalking at age eight. (I honestly do not know how my parents survived my childhood).

Despite my obvious desperate yearning to be an "older woman" so I could live happily ever after with Mr. Fantastic, I was still a little girl. And little girls love little girly things. Even the tomboys.

I loved scented lip balms.

(Do you remember the chocolate flavoured Chap Stick? I used to eat that stuff. I think some parent somewhere must have sued Chap Stick 'cause their kid probably ate too much and had some weird unidentified illness they eventually linked back to their overindulgence of chocolate flavoured Chap Stick because they discontinued it ... sad.)

Somewhere, somehow, I had managed to obtain a tin of Root Beer flavoured lip balm. I know - awesome, right? And I liked the way it made my lips feel and I loved the way it tasted and I used it all the time. I would layer this stuff on.

One Sunday I was putting the five hundredth layer on during church when the band came off the platform. And Mr. Fantastic started to walk in the direction of where my friends and I were sitting. I started freaking OUT. And then it happened. Mr. Fantastic sat right in front of me.

I was so happy I almost fainted. My cousin - and best friend - knew how immensely happy I was at this turn of events and rolled her eyes to illustrate her happiness. What can I say ... girls are complicated ...

I was just about to turn and stick my tongue out at her when I heard him say, "Why does it smell like Root Beer? I hate Root Beer." Emphasis on the word hate.

I cannot properly communicate to you how completely devastated I was. I loved Root Beer AND my Root Beer lip balm. And Mr. Fantastic hated it. Hated.

I was so distressed I dropped the stupid lip balm on the floor and it - loudly - rolled down the slanted floor and hit something and stopped. I watched in horror as he bent down to pick it up. He examined the red heart shaped tub and lifted it to his nose for a sniff. And then exclaimed that he'd found the source of the nastiness.

My heart was no longer beating and I thought I would die. I was sure I would die. My only hope in that moment was that he would put the tin down and he wouldn't make the connection between me and the little red tin.

But he slowly turned around. And he smiled. And he looked at me and said "does this belong to you?"

And with my face nine hundred shades of crimson, I reached out a shaky hand and took back the stupid, dumb, stinky tin of Root Beer lip balm. And resolved that my life - short as it had been - was over and there was no longer any point to living.

You can't imagine how horrific this entire scene was for a little eight year old girl in love. I was embarrassed yes, but more importantly I was devastated because he hated something that I loved so much. It was like, in that moment, I knew we could never be together ... unless ...

And right there and then I decided that I too hated Root Beer and would never again drink the stuff or put it on my lips or buy Root Beer scented perfume or wear Root Beer coloured clothing.

Because if I hated Root Beer then there was still a small chance that he and I could be together - I would be willing to give up my Root Beer lip balm for him.

Sigh.

I love Root Beer. Still.

I realized eventually that Root Beer was not the thing keeping us apart and that it had a great deal more to do with the massive age difference.

(Footnote ... he informed me a few years ago that he kept all those "notes" I'd placed on his windshield in a box and that he and his wife read through them from time to time and giggle about how cute it was. Yeah. Awesome.)

An Unhelpful Fairy

The tooth fairy messed up big time. Big time.

I always loved the tooth fairy. I would lay in my bed at night, pushing my tongue against the new hole in my mouth and dream of a beautiful little woman (thanks to Disney the tooth fairy's gender is up for debate, but for the purposes of this blog and to preserve my childhood memories, the tooth fairy shall remain a female) no bigger than my hand flitting through my window to collect her treasure and leave me with some much deserved cash. Much deserved because my tooth was usually yanked from my mouth prematurely by my Dad who would promise to just "wiggle it" to see if it was ready. I didn't pick up on his trick until I'd lost all my baby teeth. I know. Slow.

Anyway ... I always loved the tooth fairy. Until this morning.

And now I hate the tooth fairy. I hate the tooth fairy because she is NOT REAL. She doesn't sneak in quietly and undetected in the middle of the night to exchange money for a cute little lost tooth.

She can't because she's not real.

The tooth fairy doesn't exist. And, because the tooth fairy doesn't exist, the job of the "tooth fairy" is conducted - largely - by parents. Mom's and Dad's who are not cute little mythical creatures. Mom's and Dad's who are fallible. And we forget things.

WE forgot that at 9:30 am on Sunday morning our seven year old suddenly remembered that he needed to put his tooth - which fell out at school earlier in the week - under his pillow so the tooth fairy would come and give him money.

So ... this morning at 7:30 am when he woke up and called me into his room as I was heading for the shower I was faced with a little boy saying "Mommy, I didn't get anything ..."

I didn't understand at first - "didn't get what baby?"

"I didn't get anything" (gestures wildly towards his pillow and looks up at me with big brown very sad eyes).

And my stomach fell.

I was a terrible Mommy for forgetting.

And I realized in that moment that I hated the stupid tooth fairy for not being real and for not throwing me a bone and showing up to give my kid a little money under his pillow.

But I couldn't say that to him so I told him that the tooth fairy probably just forgot because he had placed it under his pillow so early in the day. I reminded him that most kids put the tooth under their pillow right before bed so the tooth fairy probably just forgot about it ... but that surely the tooth fairy would come tonight. I guaranteed it.

Jackie Chan was doubtful and I could see in his eyes that he was doubtful because he had to know somewhere deep inside that surely a fairy with magical powers and all would never, ever forget. And I felt like crap. My made up story was lame.

But what could I do?

Crush him even more and tell him that indeed the tooth fairy is a big stupid made up thing and it wasn't the mythical little creature that had let him down, rather it was his forgetful and obviously uncaring parents who did that to him?

I think not.

I went downstairs to tell Curtis how horrible we were and we just stared at each other for a while -which wasn't a helpful exercise - so I went to shower.

Before Curtis left I asked him if he was going to talk to Jackie Chan. And my wonderful, brilliant husband, who is also an amazing, thoughtful, caring father said "yes, I'm going to tell him that I looked up the tooth fairy's hours on the Internet and that she takes Sunday's off."

CLASSIC.

And it worked.

(And I totally know that there are many of you who are probably thinking the biggest part of this story is why our seven year old still believes in the tooth fairy ... I will tell you that my seven year old also walks by crack dealers on the way to school ... I don't mind a bit of childish fun in his life ...)