Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, June 2010.
If my family lived in sub-Saharan Africa, the chances are pretty good that there would be fewer of us than there are living here in Southwestern Ontario.
In fact, not only would we have fewer family members, but the family configuration would be almost unrecognizable in our society.
Because if we did live in sub-Saharan Africa, my mother would probably be raising my two children…and that’s if both were still alive, which is unlikely because, of the 13 million AIDS orphans in those countries alone, half die before the age of two.
As for me, the reason my mom would be raising my kids is that practically my entire generation in African countries like Botswana, Mozambique and Zimbabwe has died in the AIDS pandemic.
But, as luck would have it, mine are healthy and thriving Canadian children who have just about everything they could ever ask for, and most certainly, everything they “need.” Again, this is not the case for children in many African countries. Before AIDS orphans can thrive, they need to survive.
The “Grandmothers to Grandmothers” campaign involves Canadian grandmothers and “grand-others” who support the millions of African grandmothers who have watched their own children die of AIDS, and are now raising their grandchildren, many of whom are also infected.
On June 12, Grandmother groups across Canada, including Kitchener-Waterloo’s Omas Siskona (grandmothers together) and Mama KubWas, will “Stride to Turn the Tide” on HIV/AIDS in Africa. By walking, Canadian grandmothers will show solidarity with African grandmothers and raise money and awareness of their situation.
Three generations of my family will walk, and we will savour the opportunity to spend part of the day outside, together. We’ll wear our hats and sunscreen, and will worry about little else but arriving on time to a minor sporting activity later in the day.
When African grandmothers walk, it is out of the necessity to find food, water and firewood so that their families can survive. For them, walking is work, not pleasure or exercise.
But, regardless of an unfathomable discrepancy in resources, there are ways in which African grandmothers are absolutely the same as Canadian grandmothers: both are fiercely committed to doing what’s best for their grandchildren.
Both also know that in order to Turn the Tide of the HIV/AIDS pandemic in Africa, affordable antiretroviral drugs and free education for their grandchildren are needed to help break the cycle of poverty.
The walk on June 12 will also serve as a reminder of Canada’s humanitarian promise to provide affordable, generic life-saving drugs under legislation known as Canada’s Access to Medicines Regime (CAMR), which requires the passing of Bill C-393.
As well, the walk will encourage support for Education for All, which states, among other things, that education is a fundamental human right, and a means by which developing countries can achieve sustainable development and stability.
According to Stephen Lewis, the former UN Secretary-General’s Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa, and the inspiration behind the Canadian Grandmothers’ efforts, more than half a million children die of AIDS every year, “simply because the world imposes such an obscene division between rich and poor.”
I find myself struck by these poignant words which are so entirely simple and yet, inconceivably complicated.
And if you’re reading this, as I am while writing it, with a coffee in your hand and your children safe at school, you probably feel very much the same way as I do…lucky.
Walkers are invited to join the Grandmothers on Saturday, June 12 at Waterloo Park Area 1 at 9:30 a.m. Learn more about their campaign and the Stephen Lewis Foundation at www.grandmotherscampaign.org/
If my family lived in sub-Saharan Africa, the chances are pretty good that there would be fewer of us than there are living here in Southwestern Ontario.
In fact, not only would we have fewer family members, but the family configuration would be almost unrecognizable in our society.
Because if we did live in sub-Saharan Africa, my mother would probably be raising my two children…and that’s if both were still alive, which is unlikely because, of the 13 million AIDS orphans in those countries alone, half die before the age of two.
As for me, the reason my mom would be raising my kids is that practically my entire generation in African countries like Botswana, Mozambique and Zimbabwe has died in the AIDS pandemic.
But, as luck would have it, mine are healthy and thriving Canadian children who have just about everything they could ever ask for, and most certainly, everything they “need.” Again, this is not the case for children in many African countries. Before AIDS orphans can thrive, they need to survive.
The “Grandmothers to Grandmothers” campaign involves Canadian grandmothers and “grand-others” who support the millions of African grandmothers who have watched their own children die of AIDS, and are now raising their grandchildren, many of whom are also infected.
On June 12, Grandmother groups across Canada, including Kitchener-Waterloo’s Omas Siskona (grandmothers together) and Mama KubWas, will “Stride to Turn the Tide” on HIV/AIDS in Africa. By walking, Canadian grandmothers will show solidarity with African grandmothers and raise money and awareness of their situation.
Three generations of my family will walk, and we will savour the opportunity to spend part of the day outside, together. We’ll wear our hats and sunscreen, and will worry about little else but arriving on time to a minor sporting activity later in the day.
When African grandmothers walk, it is out of the necessity to find food, water and firewood so that their families can survive. For them, walking is work, not pleasure or exercise.
But, regardless of an unfathomable discrepancy in resources, there are ways in which African grandmothers are absolutely the same as Canadian grandmothers: both are fiercely committed to doing what’s best for their grandchildren.
Both also know that in order to Turn the Tide of the HIV/AIDS pandemic in Africa, affordable antiretroviral drugs and free education for their grandchildren are needed to help break the cycle of poverty.
The walk on June 12 will also serve as a reminder of Canada’s humanitarian promise to provide affordable, generic life-saving drugs under legislation known as Canada’s Access to Medicines Regime (CAMR), which requires the passing of Bill C-393.
As well, the walk will encourage support for Education for All, which states, among other things, that education is a fundamental human right, and a means by which developing countries can achieve sustainable development and stability.
According to Stephen Lewis, the former UN Secretary-General’s Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa, and the inspiration behind the Canadian Grandmothers’ efforts, more than half a million children die of AIDS every year, “simply because the world imposes such an obscene division between rich and poor.”
I find myself struck by these poignant words which are so entirely simple and yet, inconceivably complicated.
And if you’re reading this, as I am while writing it, with a coffee in your hand and your children safe at school, you probably feel very much the same way as I do…lucky.
Walkers are invited to join the Grandmothers on Saturday, June 12 at Waterloo Park Area 1 at 9:30 a.m. Learn more about their campaign and the Stephen Lewis Foundation at www.grandmotherscampaign.org/
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, May 2010.
It seems that my tastes in wine and humour are similar: I enjoy each when mature and complex, but I am not above indulging in the unsophisticated and not entirely savoury. As the mother of a 14 and 11-year old, I occasionally partake in both.
During their early days, the type of humour that my kids engaged in consisted mostly of gut-busting laughter when a cup fell to the floor from a high chair, or a toy was tossed out of the crib.
Later, we endured countless knock knock jokes, non-stop bathroom humour, and many gags during which the parent answers a question, and the child announces, through uncontrollable fits of laughter, “Ha! It’s opposite day!”
As my kids get older, the mingling of their increasingly sophisticated thought processes with good taste has, thankfully, become more deliberate and refined. Unfortunately, though, they don’t always aim to hit the mark, opting instead for a type of humour that might be referred to as comically dysfunctional.
As the butt (haha, I said butt!) of many of their jokes, I am generally a pushover for what they dish out. Apparently, I am also a glutton for punishment, since I really do understand and (somewhat) appreciate the enjoyment the kids get out of pulling one over on the adults.
An example of my 14-year-old son’s current type of comedy is an announcement late on a Sunday night that he has homework. I’ll have been led to believe that he’d either completed said homework, or that he didn’t have any to begin with. Every time – the story always changes, but not the method of torment - he still gets me. As my eyes widen and I begin to carefully choose my words and measure my reaction, his face will slowly begin to crack a sly smile. “Just kidding!”
My daughter also thinks she’s pretty funny…which is actually a question I regularly pose to her. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” In fact, I ask this of both the children, and instead of replying, “Sorry, Mom,” with heads hung in shame, I am subjected to echoing guffaws, peppered by, “That was so funny” and, “You should have seen your face!”
This 11-year-old tyrant has a knack for jumping out from the least expected places, at the least expected times, startling me into emitting high pitched, barely- human noises, accompanied by contorted facial expressions. She lurks, ready to spring and shout, “Boo!” sending my near-resting heart rate skyrocketing. She then gleefully mimics the look on my face and, as I recover and my beats-per-minute resume normal levels, she dashes off to find her father and brother, who give her high fives as she re-enacts her ugly tale.
My son had a new teacher transfer to his class in February, and one evening she called our home, explaining that she wanted to become acquainted with her students’ parents. We briefly discussed how things were going with Nick, and I was aware that he was around the corner, straining to hear what was being said. Although there was nothing incriminating, after I hung up the phone, I told my husband that Nick had been behaving poorly in her class. Playing along, he suggested that, in Grade 8, shouldn’t a student know better, and if not, maybe this student shouldn’t be allowed to play in the upcoming hockey tournament.
I dramatically swung around to where Nick sat, stunned…and I flashed him my biggest, brightest smile.
We all laughed, and I savoured the sweet, smooth taste of victory…not at all upset that it was lacking maturity.
It seems that my tastes in wine and humour are similar: I enjoy each when mature and complex, but I am not above indulging in the unsophisticated and not entirely savoury. As the mother of a 14 and 11-year old, I occasionally partake in both.
During their early days, the type of humour that my kids engaged in consisted mostly of gut-busting laughter when a cup fell to the floor from a high chair, or a toy was tossed out of the crib.
Later, we endured countless knock knock jokes, non-stop bathroom humour, and many gags during which the parent answers a question, and the child announces, through uncontrollable fits of laughter, “Ha! It’s opposite day!”
As my kids get older, the mingling of their increasingly sophisticated thought processes with good taste has, thankfully, become more deliberate and refined. Unfortunately, though, they don’t always aim to hit the mark, opting instead for a type of humour that might be referred to as comically dysfunctional.
As the butt (haha, I said butt!) of many of their jokes, I am generally a pushover for what they dish out. Apparently, I am also a glutton for punishment, since I really do understand and (somewhat) appreciate the enjoyment the kids get out of pulling one over on the adults.
An example of my 14-year-old son’s current type of comedy is an announcement late on a Sunday night that he has homework. I’ll have been led to believe that he’d either completed said homework, or that he didn’t have any to begin with. Every time – the story always changes, but not the method of torment - he still gets me. As my eyes widen and I begin to carefully choose my words and measure my reaction, his face will slowly begin to crack a sly smile. “Just kidding!”
My daughter also thinks she’s pretty funny…which is actually a question I regularly pose to her. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” In fact, I ask this of both the children, and instead of replying, “Sorry, Mom,” with heads hung in shame, I am subjected to echoing guffaws, peppered by, “That was so funny” and, “You should have seen your face!”
This 11-year-old tyrant has a knack for jumping out from the least expected places, at the least expected times, startling me into emitting high pitched, barely- human noises, accompanied by contorted facial expressions. She lurks, ready to spring and shout, “Boo!” sending my near-resting heart rate skyrocketing. She then gleefully mimics the look on my face and, as I recover and my beats-per-minute resume normal levels, she dashes off to find her father and brother, who give her high fives as she re-enacts her ugly tale.
My son had a new teacher transfer to his class in February, and one evening she called our home, explaining that she wanted to become acquainted with her students’ parents. We briefly discussed how things were going with Nick, and I was aware that he was around the corner, straining to hear what was being said. Although there was nothing incriminating, after I hung up the phone, I told my husband that Nick had been behaving poorly in her class. Playing along, he suggested that, in Grade 8, shouldn’t a student know better, and if not, maybe this student shouldn’t be allowed to play in the upcoming hockey tournament.
I dramatically swung around to where Nick sat, stunned…and I flashed him my biggest, brightest smile.
We all laughed, and I savoured the sweet, smooth taste of victory…not at all upset that it was lacking maturity.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Life...especially when creatively documented...is good!
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, May 2010.
Until a recent Sunday afternoon, my idea of preserving and documenting our family history involved barely lifting the lid of a Rubbermaid container, stuffing memorabilia into it, and quickly pushing it back onto a shelf in the basement. This approach ensured that I could quickly forget how overstuffed, under-organized and ineffective this method was.
For a number of reasons - among them the fact that, when placed atop the coffee table for casual perusal, this bin may not enhance the décor in our family room – I was realizing the best solution to manage our overflowing container would be to create a family scrap book.
Except for the scribbled words, “kids’ keepers,” the outside of the bin is entirely nondescript, but its contents, once considered merely semi-precious nuggets, are now emerging, for scrapbooking purposes, as absolute gold. I was thrilled to uncover forgotten items like a piece of fabric from curtains my mom made for my son’s room…this little gem provides memories of a kid’s first room, AND a sample of a grandparent’s handiwork.
It appeared that my hoarding tendencies were actually paying off. Apparently, the desire to scrapbook (Is that really a verb?) had been dormant in the back of my mind, waiting to spring forth and create beautifully embellished pages with snippets that accentuate the colours of my children’s eyes. OK…maybe not quite. I’m not artistic, but I am smart enough to enlist the help of my 11-year-old daughter whose involvement will ensure that the calibre of aesthetic creativity increases. Significantly.
Thinking that we would just spend an hour or so in the initial planning stages, I decided not to bring the entire bin up from the basement. I ran up and down the stairs, each time producing, to my daughter’s delight, more bits and pieces from my two kids’ babyhood and beyond. But her delight soon changed to bemusement and then, outright fear. My demeanour had undergone a major shift; I was no longer offering jovial explanations of items, but was obsessively gathering, sorting and muttering organizational strategies under my breath.
My neurosis, as it always does in situations like this, began to surface. What’s the best possible way to organize all of this? By year? By child? Oh my goodness, could it actually be by activity? I was tormented by countless questions, because - and this something that my husband is always quick to point out about me - nothing is ever simple.
The family room looked like a scrapbooking store…if it happened to be located in the Disaster District.
I suppose though, if a store had a table scattered with greeting cards and newspaper clippings, and a floor covered with piles of loose photos and albums, ultrasound pictures, tiny first bathing suits, and various other items reminiscent of the lives of two children, then yes, it looked quite like a scrapbooking store. But I suspect that a store would have some semblance of order…which although my goal, was so very far from my reality.
And eventually, reality interfered. My husband was otherwise occupied (taxes, he said, but I know he was just avoiding me…imagine!) and somebody in the family with a drivers’ licence had to get groceries. My obsession loosened its grip as I realized that feeding my family in the near future was more important than documenting our past.
It has become obvious that creating scrapbooks, 14 and 11 years later, isn’t easy…or particularly smart. But luckily (and astonishingly), we produced a craft-happy child who recognizes her mother’s shortcomings, and is also old enough to pick up the slack. Life (especially when nicely documented) is good!
Until a recent Sunday afternoon, my idea of preserving and documenting our family history involved barely lifting the lid of a Rubbermaid container, stuffing memorabilia into it, and quickly pushing it back onto a shelf in the basement. This approach ensured that I could quickly forget how overstuffed, under-organized and ineffective this method was.
For a number of reasons - among them the fact that, when placed atop the coffee table for casual perusal, this bin may not enhance the décor in our family room – I was realizing the best solution to manage our overflowing container would be to create a family scrap book.
Except for the scribbled words, “kids’ keepers,” the outside of the bin is entirely nondescript, but its contents, once considered merely semi-precious nuggets, are now emerging, for scrapbooking purposes, as absolute gold. I was thrilled to uncover forgotten items like a piece of fabric from curtains my mom made for my son’s room…this little gem provides memories of a kid’s first room, AND a sample of a grandparent’s handiwork.
It appeared that my hoarding tendencies were actually paying off. Apparently, the desire to scrapbook (Is that really a verb?) had been dormant in the back of my mind, waiting to spring forth and create beautifully embellished pages with snippets that accentuate the colours of my children’s eyes. OK…maybe not quite. I’m not artistic, but I am smart enough to enlist the help of my 11-year-old daughter whose involvement will ensure that the calibre of aesthetic creativity increases. Significantly.
Thinking that we would just spend an hour or so in the initial planning stages, I decided not to bring the entire bin up from the basement. I ran up and down the stairs, each time producing, to my daughter’s delight, more bits and pieces from my two kids’ babyhood and beyond. But her delight soon changed to bemusement and then, outright fear. My demeanour had undergone a major shift; I was no longer offering jovial explanations of items, but was obsessively gathering, sorting and muttering organizational strategies under my breath.
My neurosis, as it always does in situations like this, began to surface. What’s the best possible way to organize all of this? By year? By child? Oh my goodness, could it actually be by activity? I was tormented by countless questions, because - and this something that my husband is always quick to point out about me - nothing is ever simple.
The family room looked like a scrapbooking store…if it happened to be located in the Disaster District.
I suppose though, if a store had a table scattered with greeting cards and newspaper clippings, and a floor covered with piles of loose photos and albums, ultrasound pictures, tiny first bathing suits, and various other items reminiscent of the lives of two children, then yes, it looked quite like a scrapbooking store. But I suspect that a store would have some semblance of order…which although my goal, was so very far from my reality.
And eventually, reality interfered. My husband was otherwise occupied (taxes, he said, but I know he was just avoiding me…imagine!) and somebody in the family with a drivers’ licence had to get groceries. My obsession loosened its grip as I realized that feeding my family in the near future was more important than documenting our past.
It has become obvious that creating scrapbooks, 14 and 11 years later, isn’t easy…or particularly smart. But luckily (and astonishingly), we produced a craft-happy child who recognizes her mother’s shortcomings, and is also old enough to pick up the slack. Life (especially when nicely documented) is good!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thumbing my Way Through Modern Technology
The tendency to refer to a clumsy person as “all thumbs” has become an irony of our time. It’s as shoe (glove?) that seems to be on the other foot (hand?) as the face of technology continues to shift. Now, mobile communication actually requires an agile and able pair of those very digits once suggestive of physical awkwardness.
It’s no longer enough to have adequate typing skills, with right and left hands tapping alongside one another, giving barely more thought to where each finger falls than we give our mother tongue when speaking.
It is now proficiency in “thumb typing” that is required for the palm-of-hand communication process involved in texting on a cell phone, or emailing on a smart phone. Whether it’s single-thumb typing, or double opposable, it’s nearly impossible without a moderately dexterous pair.
After years of enjoying successful synaptic connections between my 10 typing fingers and my brain, I am dismayed to discover the relationship between my thumbs and my thinker is terribly lacking.
I am determined to persevere until, similar to my 14-year-old and his cohorts, thumb-typing becomes second nature. At present though, each text I compose is slow. Laborious. With… long… pauses… between… each… and… every… character.
As I stare at the keypad with alternating wide and narrowed eyes, my crooked thumb hovers, cramping, waiting to reconcile with my brain which key to hit next.
A friend, who, as a parent of kids older than mine, has been a texting aficionado for awhile, once apologized for using abbreviations in an email, figuring (correctly) that I would find them irritating.
However, since my method of texting requires the intense and lengthy consideration of each and every letter before applying the right amount of pressure, the right amount of times, I now see the appeal and have come to embrace the practice.
I am no longer ashamed to use, abuse, and even cre8 abbreviations when texting.
And texting, in general, is easier than calling my son. I can thumb type “dnr, hm now, pls” rather than calling and asking where he is and what he’s doing - that inquisition can wait until he arrives home. Texting also leaves him little opportunity to ask what’s for dinner, didn’t we just have that, and can’t we have something good for a change? In both cases, words best spoken face to face.
Sometimes I wonder if kids these days will learn to type properly, especially since some of them might begin their wired-in experience with thumb typing.
I have vivid memories of Grade 9 typing class with a teacher who was an awkward, timid man otherwise, but when setting his class to work on unmarked typewriter keys, excitedly sprang to life. He gleefully sang each letter and number for the class to type, and became especially melodic (and somewhat contorted) when we were to tap the “space” bar.
There is no question how distressed he would be about the emergence of thumb typing. Although I once worried about my kids developing poor typing habits, now that I’ve given it more thought - and publicly admitted to using abbreviations in texts - I’m not sure what other “bad” typing habits exist. I suspect my Grade 9 typing teacher would bg 2 dfr.
I was recently able to “flext my messaging muscles” when a friend’s husband sent me a text, pleading, “Please teach my wife how to text!” He knew she and I were together, and was not surprised when she did not reply to his message.
What a great feeling of pride I felt coursing through my…thumbs!
...and here for some history about my technical inabilities in Techno Gender-ational Gap
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Putting off until tomorrow...
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record on Tuesday, March 31, 2010.
Even though I did my best to introduce my kids to the benefits of tackling and completing tasks early, it’s a habit we continue to avoid establishing and maintaining.
My husband and I refer to our 14 and 11-year-old kids as “master procrastinators” when they display a knack for neglecting inevitable tasks that are often interpreted as way less important than…well, way less important than just about anything else.
But, like anything else, before attempting to solve the problem, we first need to understand what the problem actually is, and in this case, the consequences, real or perceived, of plummeting into the deep dark abyss of lifelong procrastination.
If you live in the same house but belong to a different generation, there may exist a disparity in perception of the importance of jobs and responsibilities. Though, occasionally – in a somewhat distorted way – the older and younger among us may actually perceive the importance as similar. This is the case when my kids practice, with remarkable skill and acuity, the fine art of “positive procrastination.”
When exercising positive procrastination, the kids’ creativity and resourcefulness often render me silent, which is different than exasperated and vocal…which I usually become when “in a minute” or “just a sec” are offered instead of compliance when I suggest a change of activity while they watch TV or play a video game.
As an enthusiastic and committed piano student, my 11-year-old daughter never has to be urged, cajoled or otherwise convinced to sit down and practice. She
loves to play, and I am conscious of not suggesting she move on to something else while she plays. I don’t think she’s entirely aware how this works in her favour, especially when it’s past her bed time and she is overcome by the creative urge to compose what is certain to be the modern day answer to Mozart’s 5th…only longer.
With household chores and responsibilities looming, my 14-year-old son has been known to exhibit a keener-than-usual interest in training and playing with the dog. Whether it’s a cool new trick and the dog’s on a roll, or it’s a game of fetch outside, his enthusiasm to spend time with his new best friend is palpable.
But really, isn’t anything delectable compared to the gruelling activity that is being avoided?
…which brings me to another point. Most adults I know, when choosing to do an activity that is enjoyable, are neglecting something else. Even though a task may not require urgent attention, it’s always there, taunting us in the background.
So, is it really procrastinating when you simply don’t have time to deal with that which seems un-doable, unappealing, or otherwise unworthy, or does it always suggest something favourable? Because when I “choose” to spend time dusting the furniture, in favour of say, vacuuming the floor, I fail to see where the illicit pleasure comes from!
Of course, some people produce their best work when under pressure with an imminent deadline, and thrive on, what others may consider a crushing sense of debilitating doom. Maybe it requires time spent in adulthood to realize the benefits of, and to learn to avoid experiencing this sense of doom.
For now, what childhood has taught my kids (among other things, I hope!) is that there is one positive procrastination technique that enables them to get just about anything past me. When they actually get along, and settle in to play a game or do an activity together, enjoying each other’s company, I won’t interrupt for anything.
Instead, I tell myself they are learning the benefits of not procrastinating getting along together.
Even though I did my best to introduce my kids to the benefits of tackling and completing tasks early, it’s a habit we continue to avoid establishing and maintaining.
My husband and I refer to our 14 and 11-year-old kids as “master procrastinators” when they display a knack for neglecting inevitable tasks that are often interpreted as way less important than…well, way less important than just about anything else.
But, like anything else, before attempting to solve the problem, we first need to understand what the problem actually is, and in this case, the consequences, real or perceived, of plummeting into the deep dark abyss of lifelong procrastination.
If you live in the same house but belong to a different generation, there may exist a disparity in perception of the importance of jobs and responsibilities. Though, occasionally – in a somewhat distorted way – the older and younger among us may actually perceive the importance as similar. This is the case when my kids practice, with remarkable skill and acuity, the fine art of “positive procrastination.”
When exercising positive procrastination, the kids’ creativity and resourcefulness often render me silent, which is different than exasperated and vocal…which I usually become when “in a minute” or “just a sec” are offered instead of compliance when I suggest a change of activity while they watch TV or play a video game.
As an enthusiastic and committed piano student, my 11-year-old daughter never has to be urged, cajoled or otherwise convinced to sit down and practice. She
loves to play, and I am conscious of not suggesting she move on to something else while she plays. I don’t think she’s entirely aware how this works in her favour, especially when it’s past her bed time and she is overcome by the creative urge to compose what is certain to be the modern day answer to Mozart’s 5th…only longer.With household chores and responsibilities looming, my 14-year-old son has been known to exhibit a keener-than-usual interest in training and playing with the dog. Whether it’s a cool new trick and the dog’s on a roll, or it’s a game of fetch outside, his enthusiasm to spend time with his new best friend is palpable.
But really, isn’t anything delectable compared to the gruelling activity that is being avoided?
…which brings me to another point. Most adults I know, when choosing to do an activity that is enjoyable, are neglecting something else. Even though a task may not require urgent attention, it’s always there, taunting us in the background.
So, is it really procrastinating when you simply don’t have time to deal with that which seems un-doable, unappealing, or otherwise unworthy, or does it always suggest something favourable? Because when I “choose” to spend time dusting the furniture, in favour of say, vacuuming the floor, I fail to see where the illicit pleasure comes from!
Of course, some people produce their best work when under pressure with an imminent deadline, and thrive on, what others may consider a crushing sense of debilitating doom. Maybe it requires time spent in adulthood to realize the benefits of, and to learn to avoid experiencing this sense of doom.
For now, what childhood has taught my kids (among other things, I hope!) is that there is one positive procrastination technique that enables them to get just about anything past me. When they actually get along, and settle in to play a game or do an activity together, enjoying each other’s company, I won’t interrupt for anything.
Instead, I tell myself they are learning the benefits of not procrastinating getting along together.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
14...and counting
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, March 16, 2010.
In the past two months, my family has celebrated two birthdays. Our son turned 14, and our dog turned two.
Dog owners seem to have a tendency to translate the number of dog years into people years, as naturally and easily as they might convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, or kilometers to miles.
I don’t generally use any of these conversions, but recently when employing the
“dog years X 7 = people years,” calculation, I came to an interesting and amusing realization: my son and my dog are the same age!
There are numerous canine quips and expressions that fly around our household, many of which are also applicable to people, and in our case, to the companions that share the same age.
For example:
Were you born in a barn?
In fact, yes, our Australian Shepherd, Dingo was born in a barn. Nick the boy was born in a hospital under sterile conditions, though he now inhabits a room that sometimes resembles what the typical parent might refer to as a “pig sty.” Other offenses that lead to this rhetorical question
include: doors left open, failure to remove shoes in the house, dishes not cleared…
In the past two months, my family has celebrated two birthdays. Our son turned 14, and our dog turned two.
Dog owners seem to have a tendency to translate the number of dog years into people years, as naturally and easily as they might convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, or kilometers to miles.
I don’t generally use any of these conversions, but recently when employing the
“dog years X 7 = people years,” calculation, I came to an interesting and amusing realization: my son and my dog are the same age!
There are numerous canine quips and expressions that fly around our household, many of which are also applicable to people, and in our case, to the companions that share the same age.
For example:
Were you born in a barn?
In fact, yes, our Australian Shepherd, Dingo was born in a barn. Nick the boy was born in a hospital under sterile conditions, though he now inhabits a room that sometimes resembles what the typical parent might refer to as a “pig sty.” Other offenses that lead to this rhetorical question
include: doors left open, failure to remove shoes in the house, dishes not cleared…A dog’s breakfast
With a mouthful of metal straightening his teeth, our son threatens to flash the macerated dinner debris coating his braces that looks like “a dog’s breakfast.” …except that Dingo’s food isn’t really so bad, and her breakfast can sit for hours and not change form, or generate bacteria. Not the case with Nick’s teeth.
Dropped the ball
Although more unbelievable with one than the other, both dog and boy actually throw the ball more than they drop it. When Dingo wants to play, she winds up with what can only be referred to as her “throwing neck,” lets the ball fly, and then looks up, urging us to take our turn.
Having a ball
Nick has earned the name “Party Boy” as he is always organizing a road hockey game, sleepover, bike riding outing or a gathering with neighbourhood families. Dingo simply has a ball…with a hole from which treats drop when rolled just so. Manipulating this toy, I believe, is how she learned to “throw.”
Throw me a bone
I am certain this constantly goes through Dingo’s mind when she knows she has done a good job listening and she waits patiently for a treat. I too, wait patiently for any small nugget of information from my human teenager, especially when I’m really digging deep for dirt, with intrusive questions like, “How was your day?”
Dog and pony show
The dog will frantically try to impress me if the above-mentioned bone is not thrown quickly enough. In a frenzy, she’ll speak-liedown-rollover-sitpretty, and if that still does not produce an airborne crunchy cookie, she’ll walk over and head-butt my knee. Nick’s routine is comprised of strategic jokes and anecdotes, surrounded by seemingly well-rehearsed reasons about why he didn’t get his school assignment done sooner…though he hasn’t yet discovered, “the dog ate my homework.”
Get your paws off!
Dog: paws off the furniture, the guests, the freshly laundered pants.
Boy: my wallet, your sister’s dessert, your dad’s car keys (OK, so I’m just practicing for that one)
Yanking my chain
Though I can’t be sure, I don’t think the dog possesses the intellectual sophistication to employ the humour that my son uses for his good natured teasing. But, at 14, each seem to both require and resent a short leash, which, though tempting to over-use in “training,” will clearly only make my life more difficult in the long run. Sigh…teenagers!
With a mouthful of metal straightening his teeth, our son threatens to flash the macerated dinner debris coating his braces that looks like “a dog’s breakfast.” …except that Dingo’s food isn’t really so bad, and her breakfast can sit for hours and not change form, or generate bacteria. Not the case with Nick’s teeth.
Dropped the ball
Although more unbelievable with one than the other, both dog and boy actually throw the ball more than they drop it. When Dingo wants to play, she winds up with what can only be referred to as her “throwing neck,” lets the ball fly, and then looks up, urging us to take our turn.
Having a ball
Nick has earned the name “Party Boy” as he is always organizing a road hockey game, sleepover, bike riding outing or a gathering with neighbourhood families. Dingo simply has a ball…with a hole from which treats drop when rolled just so. Manipulating this toy, I believe, is how she learned to “throw.”
Throw me a bone
I am certain this constantly goes through Dingo’s mind when she knows she has done a good job listening and she waits patiently for a treat. I too, wait patiently for any small nugget of information from my human teenager, especially when I’m really digging deep for dirt, with intrusive questions like, “How was your day?”
Dog and pony show
The dog will frantically try to impress me if the above-mentioned bone is not thrown quickly enough. In a frenzy, she’ll speak-liedown-rollover-sitpretty, and if that still does not produce an airborne crunchy cookie, she’ll walk over and head-butt my knee. Nick’s routine is comprised of strategic jokes and anecdotes, surrounded by seemingly well-rehearsed reasons about why he didn’t get his school assignment done sooner…though he hasn’t yet discovered, “the dog ate my homework.”
Get your paws off!
Dog: paws off the furniture, the guests, the freshly laundered pants.
Boy: my wallet, your sister’s dessert, your dad’s car keys (OK, so I’m just practicing for that one)
Yanking my chain
Though I can’t be sure, I don’t think the dog possesses the intellectual sophistication to employ the humour that my son uses for his good natured teasing. But, at 14, each seem to both require and resent a short leash, which, though tempting to over-use in “training,” will clearly only make my life more difficult in the long run. Sigh…teenagers!
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