Tea and Snippets

The freeze is usually announced with little to no warning.

It can be called by either one of us as quickly as, “Hey do you want to play hide and seek?” and like that! We’re frozen.

The only way one can be unfrozen is if compression socks go on sale or they come up with a better pina colada maker or flashier t.v. remote.

It’s really just to keep us both in check. If we feel the other is over-spending frivolously on items we simply don’t need, or the other has no interest in, OR if one of us has to be tutored by the other on how something works and we resent said person for thinking we don’t know the difference between a lithium battery and an oblong one, we call the freeze so there will be at least some surprises Christmas morning.

While we aren’t “technically” in a freeze right now, I cautioned Greg while out shopping that if he bought one more dry-fit golf shirt, we would need to host a neighbourhood bonfire to successfully dispose of the pile of golf shirt kindling, overpowering every closet in the house.

He agreed, while “technically” not on a freeze, he entered the mall with the threat of a freeze lingering over him in the form of my icy cold whisper. “No more dry-fit golf shirts. Not now. Not ever.”

Then he walked out of the mall with this.

It’s the hot fudge brownie sundae with BACON!

No words, Denny’s.

No. Words.

My first thought was, what a liar! There is a stack of boxes behind the counter and I can tell by the way the tower is leaning, they are empty! Is she in the middle of some sort of online liquor-store-box Jenga game?

My second thought was, this woman should totally be a marriage counsellor because she knew exactly what I wanted before I had even asked.

I was hoping she may have also thought I looked far too young to be in a liquor store and just assumed the only thing I could have possibly wanted was to use the washroom or to get a box because there was no way I was old enough to be buying booze.

What if the box had been to save a turtle or to build a fort for a homeless, dwarf bunny?

I left empty handed but pumped about that whole, I must be too young thing.

When you think your kids aren’t paying attention. Think again.

I was recently on a field trip with one of my kid’s classes and I heard a conversation while in the bathroom between two students that had me chuckling.

Girl A to Girl B: My Mom doesn’t know why our teacher is so obsessed with this crap.

Just like that.

Perhaps this girl or boy, (wait, I already said it was a girl and I was in the bathroom with them so it would be completely inappropriate if it was a boy) has a lovely Mother who wanted the kids to focus more on spelling and less on bee keeping and during a state of utter confusion and maybe even while under duress she said something like, “Wouldn’t it be great to spend a little more time on spelling now that you are all bee keeping experts?” and that statement morphed into something sinister.

Later I heard from Ellie that a friend was spending the weekend planting trees around their property because as she explained, “Her Dad wants ‘privacy.’” She used air quotes when she said “privacy” which made me think the act of planting had been described that way to her with a focus on building a fortress and not for the other reasons people plant trees; beautification or saving the environment or for a place to put those wooden faces meant to stick on trees so they look like people.

Ellie: I guess her Dad likes to pee outside.

I know I’ve raved about my seven year olds artistic abilities in the past and have even posted a few of her masterpieces.

When she presented me with this portrait of the two of us I thought, Ellie, you have captured the inner Cyclops in both of us. Maybe, in all of us.

Nailed it.

I took my three year old to the park yesterday so she could swing, run, play the grumpy old troll who lives under the bridge.

She ended up staying in character and played the grumpy old troll who gets shocked on the slide, gets sand in her shoes and insists the underdogs on the swings were approached with a lacklustre effort and not the finesse her Mother felt she had really nailed.

After a couple of failed attempts at climbing up the slide (why have they not figured out this just doesn’t work) she became increasingly angry at the only person she could yell at aside from a pigeon who knew to keep his distance.

Chloe: Ahhhh!!! I keep falling!

Me: Chloe, why don’t you try the stairs, the ladder, or the pole with the giant plastic protrusions?

Chloe: What are pro-ter-oosens?

Me: Just try the yellow thing with the blue plastic things.

Chloe (falls again): UGHHH!!!!!

Me: Okay, this is getting dangerous. You are not going to be able to climb this very tall, twisty slide the wrong way so let’s try getting to the top another way.

She looked at me and the pigeon flapped its wings and took off.

Her next line would put Nicholson’s “You can’t handle the truth!” to shame.

She screamed, “HAVEN’T YOU EVER HAD A DREAM?!!!!”

I thought I was doing the right thing.

I had crowned myself “Queen of the School Field Trips.”

It wasn’t an easy title to earn, there were about five of us in the running, all worthy candidates, always on the back of the bus telling kids to keep bums in seats and ipods at least below the height of the cushion backs so they wouldn’t be caught. All we asked in exchange was a piece of fruity gum and control of the window.

We were at the museum feigning interest in mineral formations and at the conservation authority hoisting kids high above our shoulders to see if there were any blue eggs in the bird’s nests. Just to be clear, the only child I was hoisting was my own. Hoisting, lifting or physical contact with anyone else’s child disqualifies you from the competition.

Yesterday, I was sure my presence on this, the seventy-nine-hundredth consecutive volunteer outing would put me in the field trip hall of fame.

Except I wasn’t supposed to be there.

I woke up, showered and ate my oatmeal like any other day.

I made three lunches as opposed to two, found my ten year old mascara, still scrapably dry and stood in my closet asking myself, “If I were a teacher, what would I wear?”

This wasn’t like any other day. This was a field trip day.

When I got to the school, the kids were waiting outside to board the field trip bus, an arrangement I knew like the back of my soon-to-be-stamped-hand.

I moved to the back to keep my eye on things and awaited my group assignment.

When I heard, Janet’s group, then Sarah’s group, then Linda’s, my mascara started to clump. Anyone else’s would have run but mine was far too dry.

I raised my hand and asked the teacher in charge who I would be taking care of for the day and she said, “Oh, you are not on my list today.”

It occurred to me I hadn’t even said I was coming and later learned I hadn’t paid the $22 to accompany the kids in the first place.

Twenty-two dollars? No wonder I didn’t volunteer.

So now I’m a stowaway with a couple of options.

A)     I dive off of the now moving bus, still in the school parking lot and enjoy a free day while Chloe is with a babysitter after I bandage my scabs from rolling out of a moving vehicle or

B)      I stay on the bus, look out the window and pretend I couldn’t hear anything I was just told and ride along anyway.

Secret option C) I could tell some kids they are in my group and use their lunch money to pay my way.

None of this made any sense until I read yesterday’s post.

I am a Hobo.

When did grade four get to be so complicated?

My nine year old walks and talks the dramas I remember from high school yet has not mastered her multiplication tables.

She’s asking for clothes the costume department used on the cougars in the background at the Regal Beagle on Three’s Company (styles really do come and go in cycles) at the same time she’s learning to write her name in script and successfully return home with the water bottle I packed for her.

The girl drama aside, I think t.v. is in large part influencing the language of these young girls and I’m considering shutting the whole thing down.

Last night was a pivotal moment when my three year old, taking her cue from her older sibling, turned to a kid riding their bike down our street and with her hands on her hips shouted, “Hey, where are you going, you Hobo?”

Chloe laughed after she said ‘hobo’ but then looked in my direction with an expression that said, “I have no idea what I just said but I’m pretty sure there’s a laugh track playing behind one of the street lamps and I really hope my Mom didn’t hear me.”

She wasn’t quite sure why I might question her choice to shout at a happy kid out riding their bike that they were a homeless drifter, but she knew it could land her in hot water.

I called Chloe over and asked her what she said and she repeated, “I said, ‘hey, where are you going, you Hobo!” and proceeded to run away laughing.

I explained to all three girls when we went inside that name calling of any kind was not nice, that it was not acceptable behaviour and it would not be tolerated.

The two youngest “the informants” were quick to throw their older sister under the bus so my discussion turned into a one on one with Hanna about being a good role model, treating people with kindness and respect and that name calling was never okay.

She agreed. We had what I considered to be a great talk and I walked out of her room feeling like we had made great strides.

A few minutes later, she emerged from her room to ask me something.

“Mom, what is a Hobo?”

Last night was a regular night.

I had a severe case of what Greg would refer to as “swamp ass” from sitting on cement steps watching my kids swim piggy-backed lessons totalling three hours, not including travel time, so make it four and not including skipping dinner so make it a trillion.

I know my kids find what I am about to declare hard to believe but I too was a kid once and I even remember some of it.

I know what it’s like to want to feel/look cool with the big kids but I wasn’t prepared for a moment that took place immediately following Hanna’s practice.

After waiting for her to shower, change, use her goggles to catapult someone’s bathing cap across the change room, she emerged ready to head home.

I started walking, upright for the first time in three hours, stretching my back and knees when I heard a voice from a teammate call, “Hey Hanna, come here!”

I said, “Hanna, we’re going home now.”

As she walked away from me, towards the girls, she waved in my direction and called back, “Bye.”

Oh. No. You. Di’int.

To add chlorine to the wound, the teammate called out to me, “I’ll drive her home. See ya!” before closing the door and heading in the opposite direction.

I had no doubt this other nine year old girl felt equipped to operate a motorized vehicle. I’ve seen what she could do with a hair dryer and a flutter board from the lost and found.

Perhaps Greg was right and this was just a lesson in context. He thought I was probably over-reacting as she was just goofing around with her friends. I must have been exhausted from waiting around and judged her behaviour as something more substantial than it was.

I have bed sores on my maximus and dents on my minimus, both gluteusses…gluteii? equally damaged from the harsh waiting room conditions and I’m so beyond hungry, I chewed on my seatbelt the entire ride home.

What is the right reaction?

For years, I was one of you.

I showered in the morning, cursed that my pants needed to be pressed and why for the love of linen didn’t I just iron them the night before instead of peeking through two fingers at the opening credits of Dexter? I wondered if I had worn a white blouse with a grey scarf and silver jewellery or a grey blouse with a white scarf and pearl earrings the day before.

I wore make-up, generally incorrectly, but I wore it.

I threw clothes in the washing machine in the morning and if I remembered, transferred the load to the dryer sometime later that night.

But now I’m at home with the kids and I’m wondering how I ever juggled working and having kids.

My worries over wardrobe are long forgotten.

My choice in shoes hasn’t included a beautiful pair of black dressy heels for ages.

I’m still pumping the same, dry mascara brush into a ten year old tube (yes I realize this causes pink eye or spontaneous eye-ball ejection) whenever I’ve heard three times in a row, “Liz, you look tired” from the crowd I am about to see that day.

In the past few days, I have been to a Doctor’s office with our seven year old, a walk-in clinic, a pediatrician with our youngest, each of the outings taking anywhere from two hours to half a day, way more than the time it takes to eat my seven almond daily allotment.

I am so relieved not to have to justify my Doctor’s visits (or almond consumption) to an employer or fall behind on a deadline because there simply aren’t enough hours in the day.

And my kids are healthy. Imagine those parents who have children with special needs who require frequent visits over and above the standard check-ups and odd ear infection.

Kids sports and activities are chewing into working parent’s schedules more than ever too.

Our swimming lessons are not unique in their start time of 4pm or swim meets that begin at noon or earlier.

I know someone whose child takes piano lessons at 2pm.

If I wasn’t available with a wide open schedule and clear head, how could I be totally engaged when my kids ask life’s most important questions?

Hanna: So are our walls hollow? Like what is it that makes walls?

Or Ellie asking me yesterday, “Mommy, have you ever gone boneless?”