Sweet Dreams, Sweetie Pie!

There were many things I dreamt about before my boys were born: cuddling sweet-smelling infants, rocking them to sleep, watching their snuggly selves dreaming in their lovely Beatrix Potter-themed bedroom. I was psyched for swimming lessons, reading time and afternoons spent building block towers. Motherhood was going to be a wonder, more soft-focused than a Hallmark Christmas commercial, and just as heartwarming. Yes, folks. Simply put, I was delusional.

It only took nineteen hours of labour and three months or so of next-to-no sleep to figure out that all that stuff in the Johnson & Johnson commercials was baloney. Gauzy images of clean babies sleeping peacefully while their parents gaze at them fondly from the doorway? Who MAKES these things? It can’t be anyone who’s actually been a parent.

Did you know that sleep deprivation has been categorized as a method of torture? Apparently, Guantanamo Bay personnel use the“Frequent Flyer” system, where the prisoner is woken up every three hours, around the clock. Please. Three hours! By the time Spencer was three months old, three straight hours of sleep would have been the equivalent of a lazy Saturday in bed with unlimited back massages, care of Channing Tatum. Three hours…Pah!

By rights, those J & J ads should show a baby in a food-stained onesie slumped sideways, asleep in his highchair, with his mother crawling on her hands and knees towards the bathroom, praying for him to sleep long enough so she can have a two minute shower. As usual, I digress…

What I’m trying to say is that I had a fantasy of what motherhood would be like, and like most things in my life (high school, university, marriage), the fantasy was nowhere near the reality. Forget the sun-dappled afternoons spent baking sugar cookies and playing Snakes and Ladders. Motherhood regularly took me into places that were dark, smelly and stuffed with dirty socks. Still does. It’s not like there isn’t room for the nurturing, tender moments I thought I’d share with my children. It’s just that those moments seem to be constantly interrupted by tidal waves of testosterone. Which I guess is what you can expect with three boys.

Currently, my eldest is fourteen, more hormonal than a “Stars and Strollers” matinee. The twins are nine and it seems like their favourite pastime (besides playing videogames and watching Spongebob) is finding new and interesting ways to cause each other pain. Really. One of Cooper's New Year's resolutions was (and I quote) "not to hit Finn...as much."

(A Word About Twins: If I had a dollar for every mom who told me her kids were only “X” many months apart, and that it was“just like having twins”, I would be set up for a nice steak dinner. For the record, nothing is “just like having twins”. Except maybe having triplets. )

Two weekends ago, the boys decided we should have a “Deadliest Warrior”marathon. For those of you who actuallyhave a life, DW is an hour-long show with episodes called “Vlad the Impaler vs. Sun Tzu” or “Shaolin Monk versus Viking”. Each warrior is rated in terms of the killing power of his weaponry. The best part of this shindig? (And by “best”, I mean the most gut-churning.) The weapons are tested out on ballistics gel torsos and heads that have “bones” and blood in them. The squishier and more brain-splattered the episode, the better.

Let me tell you: at NO point in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” do they tell you that the best quality for any new mother is a strong stomach. Never mind the poopy diapers and the vomit: you’d be surprised how queasy you get when watching a broadsword decapitate a fake viking. Tarantino flicks have less gore.

Now, no doubt you’ll say “Hey Jo. Why watch this stuff if you don’t like it?” And I’ll tell you: My boys like it. Those loud, dirty, crazy boys of mine; the ones that drive me crazy with their yelling and running and jumping and allergy to soap and water. They like it. And even though it isn’t what I was expecting, if it means I can spend time laughing with them, I’ll take it. Every time.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Johnson & Johnson.

 

 

The Cheese Stands Alone...Politely!

I was going through the check-out at the grocery store the other day, when I lost my mind.  No, not really.  Well, close.  Basically I turned into a Mini-Me of my 78-year-old mother (what I call a “Miz Peggy”), something which seems to be happening more and more frequently as I get older.  Not that I don’t love my mom.  She is a fine, fine woman who doubtless deserves much better than to be lampooned by her whack-a-doo daughter online.  My mom is a realist though, and one with a fab-o sense of humour.  She’s the first one to say that she’s a bit of a nut.  I mean, who else would actually enjoy being put on the front page of the local paper to talk about her “bucket list”?  (I mean, besides me?)  Really, shyness is not something of which my mom could easily be accused, bless her. 

So there I was in Safeway, at the end of a long work week in dark, depressing January, doing a “Miz Peggy”:  perking along, chatting with complete strangers, searching the contents of my purse to find a super-valuable coupon.  Truly, I could feel the love radiating at me from the customers behind me in line.    Or maybe it was gas.  Hard to tell.  Anyways, I couldn’t find the coupon, so I did what any sane (read:  cheap) person would do:  I emptied the contents of my purse on the check-out counter.  Hey man, fifty cents is fifty cents. 

Sidebar:  I’d like to say right here and now that every mother thinks she’s got an odd assortment of junk in her purse.  And it’s true.  At one point or another, we all do.  Case in point:  last time I went out with my gal pals for a “wild” night of drinking and dancing, what did the hot twentysomething bouncer find in my purse?  Fruit-flavoured condoms?  A little black book?  Nope.  It was my boys’ Nintendo DS.  Let’s just say the “neat-o!” that came out of his mouth killed any delusion I might have had of being able to party with the young’uns. 

Meanwhile, I was emptying all the stuff out of my purse at the grocery store:  dental floss, Smarties, three sets of earbuds, a pair of mitts, gum (Used...thanks, Finny), Tupperware, popcorn seasoning, half a cucumber, plant spikes and a library book.  Of all those things, what did the guy behind me comment on?  The book.  “Oh, so you like those old-fashioned things, eh?”  Old fashioned?  Really?  I didn’t think reading a book on paper was all that “out there”.  I mean, I'm aware of e-readers, but it’s not like I was using an abacus or paying with a cheque and signing it with a turkey feather.  Please.

If reading actual books is old fashioned, it seems to me like common courtesy is getting to be just as rare.  My parents were big on teaching my brother and me manners, those crazy kids.  You know, holding doors, pulling out chairs, being sure to thank my mom for making dinner every night.  However, it seems like those things aren't so automatic for people nowadays.  I was at Subway the other day and the lady behind the counter surprised me by remembering my “usual” order, even though I hadn’t been there in weeks.  Her comment?  “Oh, I always remember the polite ones.”  Good grief.  I would hope it would take slightly more than my saying “please” and “thank you” to be a stand-out.  What’s next?  A free lunch for not spitting on the floor? 

So maybe I am a dinosaur for being polite, but manners aren't something I can shake.  Like a gag-reflex, or crows' feet, or that sad tattoo of an overweight lizard on my ankle, they're not going away anytime soon.  Did you ever hear about that gorilla in California that was taught to use sign language so she could speak to her trainers?  Well, if you didn't, I can tell you that one of the first things Koko learned to sign was "thank you".  I've told all three of my boys that good manners are what separates us from the apes, but I'm starting to wonder if that's true.  If the experience of the lady at Subway is any indication, Koko is probably more polite than most of the people that go through there on any given day. 

Okay, that's me done.  If you want me, I'll be in the back, reading my book.  Thank you very much.
 

There Was A Little Girl, Who Had A Little Curl...

My whole life, I have been insecure about my looks.  The only thing I’ve ever felt consistently good about is my hair.  In fact, I used to be fairly vain about my hair.  Used to be?  Okay, I still am.  When I was small (chronologically, vertically, whichever), before it started to fade like a prairie sunset, my hair colour was gorgeous.  Sounds egotistical, but I’m pretty sure it was true.  In fact, my mom tells me that people used to stop us on the street and comment on it.  (I’m sure this had nothing to do with the fact that Selkirk was so small, a “traffic jam” was anything more than two cars at an intersection.)  In the genetic lottery, I felt like my hair was the jackpot:  pretty colour, thick as bear fur (just as hot, too) and wavy.  Talk about a crowning glory. 

(Sidebar:  You’d think that with such a beautiful head of hair, my mom would have let me grow it out long, all the better to show it off.  Maybe put it in braids, or pretty barrettes or adorable pigtails.  I mean, I could have been Manitoba's answer to Anne of Green Gables.  Dear reader, you’d think that, but you’d be wrong.  (Not that I’m bitter.  Not at all.)  No, my mom decided to keep my hair cut nice and short.  See below.  Actually, it being the early 70’s, most of the boys I went to school with had longer hair than me.  Again, I digress.)

(Big Jo hangs with her crew, "The Squinty Boyz".  Yo, yo, yo.)

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve loved my hair my whole life.  That’s why I can’t figure out why it’s decided to turn on me now.  I always thought that redheads don’t go grey.  According to my mom, it was supposed to just fade to a lovely strawberry blonde, so I would eventually be the cool old lady with the nice lid.  But now it’s going…gulp…grey.  Can you believe it?  GRAY!!!!  My own mother has sold me a false bill of goods.  The fact that she can’t remember telling me the “redheads don’t go grey” thing doesn’t help.  And it’s not just my hair that’s got it in for me.  No, my whole body is going to hell in a hand basket.  For example:  my skin.  You’d think it would be clearer now that I’m near menopause, wouldn’t you?  Again, you’d be wrong.  At this point, I've got so much dead skin and red spots I could be an extra on “The Walking Dead”. 

Don’t even get me started about the weight gain.  After university, my “Freshman Ten” turned into the “Twentysomething Twenty” quicker than you can say “Kirstie Alley”.  As for baby weight?  Please.  I used “baby weight” as an excuse until my twins were six years old.  Okay…seven.  Add in an extended stretch (pardon the pun) of Domestic Goddess duties (better known as "24/7 Fridge Access"), and it’s like a scary movie you can’t turn off.  I guess I have to face it:  I’m not going to be the clear-skinned, slender, strawberry blonde granny.  Maybe the flaky, flabby, brown-haired one...

Actually, you know what??  This is IT.  I'm taking a stand.  
                                    

Dear Hair:  It's been fun, but I'm so not into you any more.  I'm sorry, but I'm done worrying about you.  Life is way too short to spend hunched in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of tweezers.  I'm moving to Jamaica and buying a case of "Blondest Strawberry".  Or a burqa.  Whichever.  Yours truly, Jo

Colour Me Red in the Face

When I was a little girl (somewhere near the dawn of the Cretaceous Period, according to my three boys), there was an awesome Coca-Cola commercial on t.v.  It had a bunch of good-looking, long-haired twentysomethings on a hillside, sharing bottles of pop, singing “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing”.  Never mind United Nations:  this group looked like a United Colours of Benetton ad.   The whole vibe was typically 70’s.  Everyone shared, everyone smiled and everyone looked high as kites.  Authentic or not, the deal back then (at least, to my tender mind) was that taking care of your neighbor was just as important as taking care of yourself. 

Then the 80’s happened.  Greed was good, according to “Wall Street” and it was every man (or woman) for themselves.  Screw the “we”; what about the “Me”?  Me, me, me.  Like a bunch of Italian tenors warming up at the Met.  I can’t say I cared or knew about this at the time.  No, the 80’s for me was all about surviving high school, finishing university and finding a job (any job) that would pay the bills.  Which I did, to varying degrees of success and the utter surprise of my family.  Busy times. 

The next time I looked up, everything in the media was about what my dad used to refer to with disgust as “The Big ‘I Am’”.  Forget the collective good.  Everyone was out for Number One, and screw the rest of you pigeons.  Bill Clinton got nailed (pardon the pun) with the Monica Lewinsky scandal and what was his response?  Did he hang his head in shame?  Did he turn faintly pink, even?  Nope.  Goodtime Billy came out of the starting gate with all guns blazing, defiant as a middle-aged European tourist in a Speedo, talking about “that woman” and playing footsie with the English language to slime his way out of the situation.  Ew.   

I read a quote from one of the NHL players at the hockey lock-out talks yesterday.  Eric Staal (captain of the Carolina Hurricanes) said “…I feel…embarrassed to be part of this whole situation” (the “situation” being the millionaire players and billionaire owners arguing about money and screwing up the hockey season for the rest of us schmucks).  I’ll tell you, it just about jumped off the page and slapped me in the face, it was so fresh.  Who says things like that nowadays?  Is anyone embarrassed about ANYTHING?   You see it in the news all the time:  people get caught doing unspeakable things, and not only are they not ashamed, they talk about their rights and their need to be understood. 

You know what our society needs right now?  We need a heapin’ helpin’ of good old fashioned shame.  We need people like Eric Staal.  We need people who aren’t saying “I’m sorry, but…”  (Newsflash:  when you follow any apology with “but”, you actually haven’t apologized.)  People who are genuinely embarrassed by their actions and want to make amends.   That’s what I want to see, anyways.  In the midst of the horrific Phoenix Sinclair inquiry (for those of you who don’t know, she’s the little girl whose murder at the hands of her own mother wasn’t discovered by child welfare agencies until well after the fact), it seems like the last thing you’ll ever hear from anyone involved is that they’re ashamed of what they’ve done, or what they omitted to do.  Twenty-six people are shot to death in Newtown (most of them six-year-olds) and the NRA crowd isn’t ashamed of what their right to bear arms has wrought.  No, all they do is talk about putting an armed guard in every school or giving every teacher a gun.  (I wonder what happens when a guard or a teacher shoots a student, accidentally or otherwise?)

I vote for the return of shame, pure and simple.  Take ownership of what you’ve done, apologize sincerely, and make an honest effort to make amends.  It’s what I’ve tried to teach my three sons to do, and they’re only nine and fourteen.  I’d like to think we’re all capable of doing the right thing. 

Whether it’s with a Coke and a smile, or not.    

The Wheels on the Bus

Do you ever take public transit?  I do.  I ride the bus to work every day, in an effort to reduce my carbon footprint, as well as feel morally superior to those around me.  The fact that I don’t own a car plays no part.  Not at all. 

Actually, the bus isn’t as bad as you’d think.  Apart from the smells (FYI:  there is a reason no commercial ever said “The best part of waking up is garlic in your cup.”), the lack of space (“I never liked that part of my thigh anyways, ma’am.”) and the bus drivers who seem to be on a mission to fling some lucky contestant through the windshield, it’s a cakewalk.  The most entertaining part of the deal?  It’s all the regulars that I ride with Monday to Friday.  Some of them, I could set my watch by (if I had a watch):

1.      “Bumpit Girl” - twentysomething with long, perfectly pouffed hair.  Always stops in the washroom to check her 'do before work.  I walk behind her.  I know.

2.      “Outback Jack” – older man whose Tilley hat must be surgically attached.  How else do you explain some goombah that’s too rude to take his hat off on the bus?

3.      “Shrek Twin” – no word of a lie.  Shave his head and paint him green, you couldn’t tell the difference.  Haven’t seen Donkey yet.

4.      “Mrs. Vanilla” – never wears a lick of colour.  No make-up, no patterns, no embellishments of any kind.  The only thing she does is chew gum (loudly) and read boring-looking scientific magazines.  When I can’t sleep, I think of her.

5.      “Angry Purple Woman” – brown version of Tina Fey.  Wears purple glasses, purple jewelry, purple purse.  One day she will eat grapes on the bus and I will fall over dead.

6.      “Sharp Dressed Drooler” – noticed this poor guy fast asleep and drooling on his oh-so-stylish skinny tie one day last spring.  Decided to leave him be.  The three teenage girls beside him were not as kind.

7.      “80’s Hair Guy” – blond hair, parted down the middle and feathered back.  One look and I could tell to the minute when he graduated high school.  Finally got a new haircut this fall. I nearly applauded.

8.      “Socks and Flip-flops” – ripped sweats, muddy (!?) socks, greasy hair in a pig-tail under a ball cap.  If it were only once in a while, I could blame it on a bender.  Nope.  This is how he rolls.  Every morning. 

9.      “Scary Pierced Man” – this guy’s pointier (nose, lip and ears) than a bale of razor wire sitting on a pincushion.  Plays his IPod super loud.  I've decided to learn to love thrash metal.

10.  “Corn Nuts Chick” –  if life was fair, this girl would weigh eight-hundred pounds by now, considering how she’s always eating something.  Side note:  thrash metal is especially good at covering sounds of smacking, slurping and finger-licking. 

No doubt the people that I ride with have nicknames for me, too.  "Freakishly Tall Ginger".  Or "Sleepy Big Noggin".  Maybe I blend in, though I kind of doubt that.  The point is, there is a certain comfort to be found in routine.  If I see “Bumpit Girl” asleep in her usual seat near the back door, I know I’m on time.  If I’m running late and “Mrs. Vanilla” is on the same bus, I know I’m not the only one who slept in.  It’s normal.  Safe, even.  That’s what I love about Canada.  I can ride the bus every day and never worry about being assaulted. 

I only wish to God that were true in India. 



 

No, I've Never Met Him

Truthfully, there’s nothing I enjoy more than a good rant (and a Coke on ice, if you’ve got one).  A good rant combines two of my favourite occupations:  1) talking and; 2) more talking.  Really, a soapbox is probably my most comfortable perch, no matter what the occasion.  You may ask "What the heck are you talking about, Jo?"  Well, dear reader, it just so happens that I say that very thing to myself all the time.  What I’m talking about is the origin of the term, "Get off your soapbox".  It actually comes from the 19^th century, when impromptu public speakers took to jumping on wooden crates (soapboxes) in order to be better seen and heard by the crowd they were addressing.  (Don’t say I never taught you anything.)  Luckily for me, I’m tall enough not to need a soapbox, because frankly, I would never be able to stand on that small a surface for more than a minute or so anyways.  Balance issues. No, really.

I don’t think you just one day up and become a ranter.  You need to be born with a bee in your bonnet or an axe to grind.  As for me?  Well, my dear old dad was a ranter from way back.  Without even knowing he was doing it, he passed ranting on to me like Kindergarteners spread flu germs at Christmas-time.  (On a side note:  When my boys were actually in Kindergarten, I used to ask them if they sat around in school licking each other all day.  How else do you explain getting that sick, that often?  But I digress…)  Ranting's in my bones, is what I'm saying, and I've finally realized that it's probably best to get it out of my system and down in writing on a quasi-regular basis, rather than assault my friends and loved ones at particularly inappropriate times.  Like in the bathtub, for example.  Long story.  Never mind.

And that’s why I’ve decided to emulate my other male role model in the ranting department:  the elf himself, Rick Mercer.  Little Ricky rants like no one else I’ve ever heard: fast and furious and on the move.  He’s like the Steven Tyler of ranting.  Minus the leather pants and long hair.  What I love is that he’s able to get his point across with intensity and humour, and he always ends with a look.  You know, the kind of look that might get you arrested on a bus.  Yes, for me, Rick is the Stare Master, and I’m not ashamed to go to the Land of Lame Puns for that one.  Rick looks at you and you are in no doubt that you are The One he’s looking at.  Well, maybe you are in doubt, but who cares??  I certainly don't let reality get in the way of a good fantasy…

RM’s rants are usually political in nature.  This figures, since he seems very smart and up on world issues and such.  My rants are going to be smaller in scope.  Potentially a lot smaller, really.  This is because I don’t know tons about politics, but I do know about things that the average Canadian can relate to just as well.  Like what it is to be a forty-something Canadian trying to make ends meet as a part of the Wretched Middle Class and raising children that have (at least) half a brain and manners and more than an outside chance of growing up to become Useful Citizens.  I will rant about the things that tick me off, as well as the things that make me laugh.  If you want to think of it this way:  Where RM’s rants are the meat and potatoes of a rant banquet, my contributions will be more like the dessert course.  They should give you a little thrill each time, and hopefully leave you wanting more. 

Seconds, anyone??