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 ...)