Thursday, April 30, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
Back Seat Drivers
Ever have the feeling you're getting advice from those least qualified to give it?
read about driving tips offered by my 13 and 10-year-old-kids
read about driving tips offered by my 13 and 10-year-old-kids
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
the Top of the Slobbery Slope
click here for my column at the Waterloo Region Record about the beginning of the end...of my family's dog-less existence
Doggie Deficit
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
My children have a tendency to define our family, not by what we have, but rather, by what we don’t have. According to both Nick and Elena, a serious McKee clan deficit is a pet dog.
As a small baby, Elena, now seven, would shriek with delight whenever she saw a dog. When she eventually realized that people actually take these four-legged, furry creatures into their homes and care for them like family members, she could barely contain herself. Like every stuffed puppy she saw on store shelves, she had to have one of her own: a living plushie.
Elena’s earliest words included the names of the two dogs, rather than the names of the two little girls, in a dear friend’s family. As an “honourary sister,” she loved these girls. But the dogs, Lucy and Cedar were somehow more vital to her vocabulary.
My husband and I, and other long-time friends, had canine companions before having kids. Our Keshia and their Max shared play dates, babysitters and graduation certificates from the same puppy school. The other “mom,” Shelley, and I traded training tips from pet magazines, and gossiped about the deplorable behaviour of other less, well-heeled dogs.
Over the years, both dogs passed away, and each family grew to include two children. Aware that both sets of parents had previously owned a dog, the four kids collectively declared their mission: to wear their parents down and remind them how greatly enriched their lives had been by pet ownership.
They begged, pleaded and cajoled. They fetched dog-eared Photos of the deceased pets. Only movies starring Benji, Lassie or Otis were requested. Each pair of siblings first focused on their own parents, then on their friends’, in their endless canine campaigning.
I felt entirely confident in Shelley’s position on the matter, but it began to appear that her husband had switched sides. Eventually, he told me that he and the kids had detected cracks in Shelley’s armour. No way, I thought. This woman and I had experienced puppyhood and pregnancy together. I knew her, and I was certain she would stand firm.
So imagine my shock…my disappointment… and worst of all, my seriously decreased ability to continue to fend off my own kids – when the hounding paid off, and a puppy named Diesel bounded into their lives.
Shelley didn’t tell me she had caved. I was the last to find out. My kids told me about Diesel’s arrival, and I refused to believe it was true. I was in denial.
The next time I saw her, Shelley sheepishly (or should I say, with “puppy-dog eyes”) asked if I was mad at her. My mind reeled. OF COURSE I’M MAD AT YOU! WE WERE A TEAM! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?
“No. Not at all. Don’t be silly,” I replied.
The pressure in my house intensified. My kids began answering dog questions that had not been asked: they insisted they’d feed it, they’d walk it, they’d play with it, they’d groom it, they’d clean the yard, and — my favourite, considering their employment status — they’d pay the vet bills.
Their voices change when they speak to animals. They coo gently and soothingly, not at all like the shrill whining when they are begging for a dog. When I hear those coos, I wonder, is it unfair to deny them a valuable opportunity to express this innate fondness for a living thing?
I recognize that pet ownership nurtures valuable qualities. It teaches responsibility … but so do table setting, clearing and taking out the garbage. And they have yet to master those skills.
Though they don’t entirely understand why, my kids seem to have accepted that a dog will not soon become part of our family. We simply don’t have the time to care for it properly.
Now, Nick mentions a dog only twice a year (Christmas and birthday gift suggestions), while Elena has taken to subtly harassing her grandparents.
She recently spent a weekend with my mom, who called me on Monday morning with an update on the visit.
As she had been about to head to the grocery store, she did a final check of her shopping list. She noticed that an item had mysteriously been added.
Milk. Bread. Eggs. And printed in a well-practiced script… Puppy!
I seriously hope that this time, my children are barking up the wrong tree.
My children have a tendency to define our family, not by what we have, but rather, by what we don’t have. According to both Nick and Elena, a serious McKee clan deficit is a pet dog.
As a small baby, Elena, now seven, would shriek with delight whenever she saw a dog. When she eventually realized that people actually take these four-legged, furry creatures into their homes and care for them like family members, she could barely contain herself. Like every stuffed puppy she saw on store shelves, she had to have one of her own: a living plushie.
Elena’s earliest words included the names of the two dogs, rather than the names of the two little girls, in a dear friend’s family. As an “honourary sister,” she loved these girls. But the dogs, Lucy and Cedar were somehow more vital to her vocabulary.
My husband and I, and other long-time friends, had canine companions before having kids. Our Keshia and their Max shared play dates, babysitters and graduation certificates from the same puppy school. The other “mom,” Shelley, and I traded training tips from pet magazines, and gossiped about the deplorable behaviour of other less, well-heeled dogs.
Over the years, both dogs passed away, and each family grew to include two children. Aware that both sets of parents had previously owned a dog, the four kids collectively declared their mission: to wear their parents down and remind them how greatly enriched their lives had been by pet ownership.
They begged, pleaded and cajoled. They fetched dog-eared Photos of the deceased pets. Only movies starring Benji, Lassie or Otis were requested. Each pair of siblings first focused on their own parents, then on their friends’, in their endless canine campaigning.
I felt entirely confident in Shelley’s position on the matter, but it began to appear that her husband had switched sides. Eventually, he told me that he and the kids had detected cracks in Shelley’s armour. No way, I thought. This woman and I had experienced puppyhood and pregnancy together. I knew her, and I was certain she would stand firm.
So imagine my shock…my disappointment… and worst of all, my seriously decreased ability to continue to fend off my own kids – when the hounding paid off, and a puppy named Diesel bounded into their lives.
Shelley didn’t tell me she had caved. I was the last to find out. My kids told me about Diesel’s arrival, and I refused to believe it was true. I was in denial.
The next time I saw her, Shelley sheepishly (or should I say, with “puppy-dog eyes”) asked if I was mad at her. My mind reeled. OF COURSE I’M MAD AT YOU! WE WERE A TEAM! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?
“No. Not at all. Don’t be silly,” I replied.
The pressure in my house intensified. My kids began answering dog questions that had not been asked: they insisted they’d feed it, they’d walk it, they’d play with it, they’d groom it, they’d clean the yard, and — my favourite, considering their employment status — they’d pay the vet bills.
Their voices change when they speak to animals. They coo gently and soothingly, not at all like the shrill whining when they are begging for a dog. When I hear those coos, I wonder, is it unfair to deny them a valuable opportunity to express this innate fondness for a living thing?
I recognize that pet ownership nurtures valuable qualities. It teaches responsibility … but so do table setting, clearing and taking out the garbage. And they have yet to master those skills.
Though they don’t entirely understand why, my kids seem to have accepted that a dog will not soon become part of our family. We simply don’t have the time to care for it properly.
Now, Nick mentions a dog only twice a year (Christmas and birthday gift suggestions), while Elena has taken to subtly harassing her grandparents.
She recently spent a weekend with my mom, who called me on Monday morning with an update on the visit.
As she had been about to head to the grocery store, she did a final check of her shopping list. She noticed that an item had mysteriously been added.
Milk. Bread. Eggs. And printed in a well-practiced script… Puppy!
I seriously hope that this time, my children are barking up the wrong tree.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
A Welcome Affliction
My kids are afflicted by a condition that doesn’t keep me awake at night worrying, phone poised ready to call the doctor. I’m pretty sure it’s contagious, but most parents don’t seem to mind exposing their children to those suffering its effects. Those children who come down with it continue going to school, but I’m not sure the teachers find their condition ideal to work with.
After a long, harsh winter, spring is in the air, and my kids have a serious case of Spring Fever. Never mind that only four days ago, there were school boards in our area that cancelled classes and declared a snow day. (Our board didn’t cancel - a terrible disappointment for my own kids, but one that quickly turned around…which is what their bus did upon arriving to the school and discovering there was no power as a result of the storm.)
But now, there is actual greenery poking through the April snow as it melts on our flower beds and we are anticipating a beautiful, warm, sunny spring weekend.
I’m posting a column I wrote a few years ago, a little later in the spring. It helps me prepare for relapse in my kids’ "condition."
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
April 2007.
Playing outside when winter ends is a thrill like no other for my kids.
This year, after months of intense cold, cancelled school buses, hockey games and swimming lessons, spring has finally arrived. And in my house, perhaps because of its somewhat overdue arrival, my kids have both come down with a hopeless case of spring fever.
Apparently, there is something addictive and intoxicating in the sweet spring air that beckons them outside, and once there, or during their non-stop attempts to get there, affects their judgment and personality.
Until a few weeks ago, 11-year-old Nick and eight-year-old Elena calmly came into the house after school. They would dutifully hang up their coats and unpack their lunch bags, before sitting down for a snack.
Now, they step one foot inside the house, hurl their backpacks toward the kitchen, and bolt back out the door.
On one of the first true spring days, Elena had a wild look in her eyes and a grin that I suspected would result in aching facial muscles as she excitedly proclaimed, “I don’t know why, but I…I…I just can’t get enough of being outside!”
Like a kid in a candy store – actually, more like a kid after a candy store – she went from bike to skipping rope to basketball to scooter to sidewalk chalk, clearly overwhelmed by such an awesome selection.
While Elena was content to play on the driveway, Nick was out biking around the neighborhood. Not far from our house, a serious lapse in judgment resulted in what one of his friends dramatically described as a “face plant over his handlebars.” Although this appeared to ease his pain and suffering, I’m confident that this relatively minor accident will serve as a reminder to him (please, please let it be so!) to limit any future death-defying bike stunts.
My kids had settled into a reasonably efficient morning routine for the past seven or so months, but now, along with the promise of sunshine and spring air, it seems to have gone out the window. Both are distracted like toddlers with a task, and seem unable to “snap out of it”.
I now need to stand in the hallway instructing them what do next. “Nick, brush your teeth. Elena brush your hair. “Nick, get dressed. Elena, put on your socks.”
“Nick… I mean, Elena… I mean… Would you both please just get ready!”
“And quit running and hollering in the house!” I holler in the house while chasing them back to their rooms.
Our soccer and baseball season has not yet begun, so our weeknight suppers are relatively relaxed… except for the kids’ intense urge to get back outside to play. Both have to be constantly reminded to sit while they eat, and when the phone or door bell rings, they both dash to see who it is, and what evening game or activity is being planned.
Finally, when the last laborious bites have been taken, and we’ve bargained about what time they have to be back in, they burst out the door. They proceed to run around as though an internal gauge indicates a certain amount of energy that must be spent in the next one-hour time period. They opt to scale fences, rather than walking through the gates with easy-open latches, which are often open anyway.
Our house sits at the edge of a small wooded area and the closest trees are home to hundreds of starlings. We are treated to the enthusiastic spring song of these choral birds early each morning, and again in the evening, around the kids’ bedtime.
Nick’s bedroom faces the backyard, and he insists, regardless of temperature, that his second story window be left wide open each night so he can hear the birds. It makes him feel as though he’s still outside, he says, and I’ll agree to just about anything that helps to lull this over-active child to sleep.
As I say goodnight, I consider the kids’ inhuman amount of energy, reluctance to sit while eating, instinctive desire to be outside when awake, and the need to hear the birds while asleep, and I can’t help but consider the possibility that my kids were born into the wrong family.
…I’m starting to think that they were actually meant to be raised by wolves!
After a long, harsh winter, spring is in the air, and my kids have a serious case of Spring Fever. Never mind that only four days ago, there were school boards in our area that cancelled classes and declared a snow day. (Our board didn’t cancel - a terrible disappointment for my own kids, but one that quickly turned around…which is what their bus did upon arriving to the school and discovering there was no power as a result of the storm.)
But now, there is actual greenery poking through the April snow as it melts on our flower beds and we are anticipating a beautiful, warm, sunny spring weekend.
I’m posting a column I wrote a few years ago, a little later in the spring. It helps me prepare for relapse in my kids’ "condition."
Spring Fever
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
April 2007.
Playing outside when winter ends is a thrill like no other for my kids.
This year, after months of intense cold, cancelled school buses, hockey games and swimming lessons, spring has finally arrived. And in my house, perhaps because of its somewhat overdue arrival, my kids have both come down with a hopeless case of spring fever.
Apparently, there is something addictive and intoxicating in the sweet spring air that beckons them outside, and once there, or during their non-stop attempts to get there, affects their judgment and personality.
Until a few weeks ago, 11-year-old Nick and eight-year-old Elena calmly came into the house after school. They would dutifully hang up their coats and unpack their lunch bags, before sitting down for a snack.
Now, they step one foot inside the house, hurl their backpacks toward the kitchen, and bolt back out the door.
On one of the first true spring days, Elena had a wild look in her eyes and a grin that I suspected would result in aching facial muscles as she excitedly proclaimed, “I don’t know why, but I…I…I just can’t get enough of being outside!”
Like a kid in a candy store – actually, more like a kid after a candy store – she went from bike to skipping rope to basketball to scooter to sidewalk chalk, clearly overwhelmed by such an awesome selection.
While Elena was content to play on the driveway, Nick was out biking around the neighborhood. Not far from our house, a serious lapse in judgment resulted in what one of his friends dramatically described as a “face plant over his handlebars.” Although this appeared to ease his pain and suffering, I’m confident that this relatively minor accident will serve as a reminder to him (please, please let it be so!) to limit any future death-defying bike stunts.
My kids had settled into a reasonably efficient morning routine for the past seven or so months, but now, along with the promise of sunshine and spring air, it seems to have gone out the window. Both are distracted like toddlers with a task, and seem unable to “snap out of it”.
I now need to stand in the hallway instructing them what do next. “Nick, brush your teeth. Elena brush your hair. “Nick, get dressed. Elena, put on your socks.”
“Nick… I mean, Elena… I mean… Would you both please just get ready!”
“And quit running and hollering in the house!” I holler in the house while chasing them back to their rooms.
Our soccer and baseball season has not yet begun, so our weeknight suppers are relatively relaxed… except for the kids’ intense urge to get back outside to play. Both have to be constantly reminded to sit while they eat, and when the phone or door bell rings, they both dash to see who it is, and what evening game or activity is being planned.
Finally, when the last laborious bites have been taken, and we’ve bargained about what time they have to be back in, they burst out the door. They proceed to run around as though an internal gauge indicates a certain amount of energy that must be spent in the next one-hour time period. They opt to scale fences, rather than walking through the gates with easy-open latches, which are often open anyway.
Our house sits at the edge of a small wooded area and the closest trees are home to hundreds of starlings. We are treated to the enthusiastic spring song of these choral birds early each morning, and again in the evening, around the kids’ bedtime.
Nick’s bedroom faces the backyard, and he insists, regardless of temperature, that his second story window be left wide open each night so he can hear the birds. It makes him feel as though he’s still outside, he says, and I’ll agree to just about anything that helps to lull this over-active child to sleep.
As I say goodnight, I consider the kids’ inhuman amount of energy, reluctance to sit while eating, instinctive desire to be outside when awake, and the need to hear the birds while asleep, and I can’t help but consider the possibility that my kids were born into the wrong family.
…I’m starting to think that they were actually meant to be raised by wolves!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
I'm working on it!
Hello! Thanks for coming. I just wanted to let you know that, as it suggests above (at least I think that will appear above), I'm in the very early stages of developing this blog - in fact, I don't even know if I'm using the proper terminology to describe that!
I have decided to give this mysterious product of the World Wide Web a try, and luckily, I don't have to start from scratch.
As a columnist for the Waterloo Region Record, I have a number of already prepared columns. You can read some of them here.
See below for a past column that will give you an idea of my shortcomings when it comes to modern technology. (I'm seriously considering using it for the "About me" section). I wish I could say my techno-abilities have improved since I wrote it, but...
thanks again for coming and I hope to see you soon! Paula
I have decided to give this mysterious product of the World Wide Web a try, and luckily, I don't have to start from scratch.
As a columnist for the Waterloo Region Record, I have a number of already prepared columns. You can read some of them here.
See below for a past column that will give you an idea of my shortcomings when it comes to modern technology. (I'm seriously considering using it for the "About me" section). I wish I could say my techno-abilities have improved since I wrote it, but...
thanks again for coming and I hope to see you soon! Paula
Real Family Life or Reality TV?
Originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
As much as I would like to say that I take pride in the fact that I am not an avid television viewer, the truth is, I actually long to spend more time in front of the television. Ahh, to lounge by the fire with a hot cup of tea, nothing to worry about except whether or not the mystery/infidelity/murder/heinous act/incurable illness will be solved/exposed/punishable by law/cured by the end of the episode seems like a cozy euphoria that I can only imagine.
In reality, my television viewing consists of disjointed bits and pieces of shows and commercials glimpsed while I fold laundry and accomplish a myriad of mundane household tasks, few of which require undivided attention.
Add the TV knowledge vicariously acquired at the proverbial water cooler and I can’t help but recognize a few somewhat twisted and comical parallels between my family’s life and at least the titles of some of these shows.I’m pleased (and relieved) to report it’s not the endless versions of C.S.I. and Law and Order that illustrate these similarities, but rather, for the most part, the shows with real, live participants.
Who Wants to be a Millionaire
My 11-year-old son often asks unusually well-crafted hypothetical questions about large amounts of money. Although more complex, the basic premise is always the same: But really, what WOULD we do if we won 10 million dollars? My reply: "You can’t win if you don’t play!"
The conversation concludes with Nick grappling with what he considers a senseless injustice: he can’t quite understand why, if our family had 10 million dollars, he still would not be allowed a 42-inch flat-screen TV and Playstation in his bedroom.
Fear Factor
On weekends, we attempt to feed our kids foods that we don’t have time to prepare on weekdays. These meals cannot be considered exotic by any standards, but the kids behave as though we’re trying to serve them revolting concoctions containing whole scorpions and blended pig eyeballs. Seven-year-old Elena regularly and emphatically states that she’s "NOT eating THAT" with the same intense disdain that I imagine would be appropriate for the truly unappetizing Fear Factor Fare.
Deal or No Deal
As the sequel to Fear Factor, this is the basis of the discussion about whether or not there will be any dessert following dinner. Dessert? Or no Dessert? Younger family members must eat a pre-determined number of forkfuls before moving on to the next stage of the meal. My husband, Callum, does his best Howie Mandel impression as he claps his hands together toward the kids and says, "Nick and Elena, Open the mouth."
So You Think You Can Dance?
In their own little world that appears to revolve around various forms of "dance school," "dance party" and the ever popular "dance performance," my daughter and her friends often announce an upcoming, impromptu recital and request that they not be disturbed until otherwise instructed.
They begin by screening, choosing and meticulously listing their songs, which are eclectic mixes ranging from the Beatles to Raffi. Next, they rehearse, create tickets and arrange chairs for optimum viewing. Finally, they call the parents in to watch.I’m pretty sure I recognize many of the steps as ballet, jazz, and even hip hop; it’s the skillfully choreographed, little-known dance genre in which all of these girls appear to have received in-depth training that I can’t recall having seen before. There’s flailing, but it’s deliberate and confident; clearly, they do think they can dance.
Lost
…the grocery list, the second mitten, the tape when we need to wrap a gift for a birthday party that begins in 10 minutes… Other than commercials, I’ve never seen any of this show before, but the name intrigues me and urges me on… my car keys, the overdue library book, the CD that belongs in the empty case …
The Amazing Race
All day, every day our lives are a test of physical endurance and mental and emotional stability. I regularly bolt up the stairs, two, sometimes three at a time, only to wonder once I reach the top… what AM I up here for, anyway? Troubled by the unnecessary clutter in my mind that prevents me from remembering, I slowly descend the stairs. Once at the bottom, I remember what the critically important item was, and at high speed, make my way back up the stairs.
Entertainment Tonight
Many of our evenings provide a dose of comedy – life with children is genuinely amusing… and tragedy - the dramatic pleading for one more story, another glass of water, the urgent and sudden need for a band aid…
Whatever the conversation, or the reasoning employed, the level of entertainment rivals anything the celebrities can dish out.
As much as I would like to say that I take pride in the fact that I am not an avid television viewer, the truth is, I actually long to spend more time in front of the television. Ahh, to lounge by the fire with a hot cup of tea, nothing to worry about except whether or not the mystery/infidelity/murder/heinous act/incurable illness will be solved/exposed/punishable by law/cured by the end of the episode seems like a cozy euphoria that I can only imagine.
In reality, my television viewing consists of disjointed bits and pieces of shows and commercials glimpsed while I fold laundry and accomplish a myriad of mundane household tasks, few of which require undivided attention.
Add the TV knowledge vicariously acquired at the proverbial water cooler and I can’t help but recognize a few somewhat twisted and comical parallels between my family’s life and at least the titles of some of these shows.I’m pleased (and relieved) to report it’s not the endless versions of C.S.I. and Law and Order that illustrate these similarities, but rather, for the most part, the shows with real, live participants.
Who Wants to be a Millionaire
My 11-year-old son often asks unusually well-crafted hypothetical questions about large amounts of money. Although more complex, the basic premise is always the same: But really, what WOULD we do if we won 10 million dollars? My reply: "You can’t win if you don’t play!"
The conversation concludes with Nick grappling with what he considers a senseless injustice: he can’t quite understand why, if our family had 10 million dollars, he still would not be allowed a 42-inch flat-screen TV and Playstation in his bedroom.
Fear Factor
On weekends, we attempt to feed our kids foods that we don’t have time to prepare on weekdays. These meals cannot be considered exotic by any standards, but the kids behave as though we’re trying to serve them revolting concoctions containing whole scorpions and blended pig eyeballs. Seven-year-old Elena regularly and emphatically states that she’s "NOT eating THAT" with the same intense disdain that I imagine would be appropriate for the truly unappetizing Fear Factor Fare.
Deal or No Deal
As the sequel to Fear Factor, this is the basis of the discussion about whether or not there will be any dessert following dinner. Dessert? Or no Dessert? Younger family members must eat a pre-determined number of forkfuls before moving on to the next stage of the meal. My husband, Callum, does his best Howie Mandel impression as he claps his hands together toward the kids and says, "Nick and Elena, Open the mouth."
So You Think You Can Dance?
In their own little world that appears to revolve around various forms of "dance school," "dance party" and the ever popular "dance performance," my daughter and her friends often announce an upcoming, impromptu recital and request that they not be disturbed until otherwise instructed.
They begin by screening, choosing and meticulously listing their songs, which are eclectic mixes ranging from the Beatles to Raffi. Next, they rehearse, create tickets and arrange chairs for optimum viewing. Finally, they call the parents in to watch.I’m pretty sure I recognize many of the steps as ballet, jazz, and even hip hop; it’s the skillfully choreographed, little-known dance genre in which all of these girls appear to have received in-depth training that I can’t recall having seen before. There’s flailing, but it’s deliberate and confident; clearly, they do think they can dance.
Lost
…the grocery list, the second mitten, the tape when we need to wrap a gift for a birthday party that begins in 10 minutes… Other than commercials, I’ve never seen any of this show before, but the name intrigues me and urges me on… my car keys, the overdue library book, the CD that belongs in the empty case …
The Amazing Race
All day, every day our lives are a test of physical endurance and mental and emotional stability. I regularly bolt up the stairs, two, sometimes three at a time, only to wonder once I reach the top… what AM I up here for, anyway? Troubled by the unnecessary clutter in my mind that prevents me from remembering, I slowly descend the stairs. Once at the bottom, I remember what the critically important item was, and at high speed, make my way back up the stairs.
Entertainment Tonight
Many of our evenings provide a dose of comedy – life with children is genuinely amusing… and tragedy - the dramatic pleading for one more story, another glass of water, the urgent and sudden need for a band aid…
Whatever the conversation, or the reasoning employed, the level of entertainment rivals anything the celebrities can dish out.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Techno Gender-ational Gap
Originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
Somewhere deep in my son’s brain exists a startling ability to comprehend, manipulate and program the many technological devices that have become commonplace in our lives. In the same spot, deep in my own brain, exists a gaping void, revealing what I can only guess is a "gender-ational" gap between my own abilities and those of my techno-savvy son.
At age 11, Nick has developed a Midas touch with all things that require users to be electronically, mechanically and technologically inclined. This seemingly innate ability became especially apparent recently when I reluctantly replaced a five year old cell phone.
A mere two years into the life of my phone, I stopped by the store where I had purchased it to inquire about the cost of a supplementary charger. The sales person, who was practically still a child, laughed openly at me.
Apparently, it was completely ridiculous to ask such a thing; this two-year-old phone had long ago become obsolete, so whatever would they still be stocking the chargers for?
Nick also felt an obvious distaste for my old phone, which was about the size of a one pound block of butter. When he heads out to play street hockey in our neighborhood, I send along my cell phone so I am able to reach him. He happily obliges now that I have a new phone. However, when I would attempt to hand him the old cell phone, he would recoil, as if in fear, hands raised in the air. "I’m not taking that!" he would say, as though it would surely sear the flesh of his palm on contact.
He was delighted when the old phone made its last call. I, on the other hand, was troubled about having to learn all the bells and whistles of a new phone, given how long it had taken me to master the features on the old one. Reluctantly, I headed back to the store.
I perused the many types of phones and carefully considered their features. I was quite sure that I would not use text messaging, and asked the sales person if I could please see a model without this unnecessary feature. Once again, I was laughed at (they ALL have text messaging now), this time by a young man, who, suspiciously, seemed even younger than the girl on my last visit.
I chose what appeared to be one of the simplest models available. I brought it home and the kids were thrilled. How exciting! A new phone with a camera (because you never know when you might need one) AND text messaging. The phone became the kids’ Friday evening activity.
Nick customized the screen by adding a picture of himself and his sister, taken with the automatic setting.
Next, he moved on to the text messaging feature and with little effort, text-ed (what kind of word is that, anyway?) messages to my email address.
I sat by helplessly, wishing that I could contribute, in some small way, to the programming of my phone. I flipped through the instruction booklet (which is similar in thickness to my old phone) and marveled at how easily all this came to Nick.
When he began to program phone numbers, I dutifully recited them. Eventually, he agreed to let me try, but soon re-claimed his role after it became clear that it would be easier if he just did it himself.
In addition to Nick’s inexplicable and in-depth knowledge of cell phones, he graciously programs my music onto (or is that into?) his mp3 player. He convinced me that this makes a much better walking companion than a compact disc player strapped to my waist by a cumbersome hip sack. He has also become the family photographer, a role I gave up when our 35 mm was replaced by a digital camera. I suspect if we ever programmed our antiquated VCR, he would do that, as well.
I can no longer solve any computer problem that Nick can’t solve himself. In fact, we have experienced a bit of a role reversal in that department. A few weeks ago I mentioned, to nobody in particular, that my computer retreats too quickly into sleep mode. "I can help you with that, mom," Nick said as he confidently sat down beside me and began to journey into the unknown of my desk top. After a quick couple of clicks, he nonchalantly got up and said, "There you go."
And – oh, what a sweet boy he is - unlike the youngsters at the phone store, he didn’t even laugh as he said it.
Somewhere deep in my son’s brain exists a startling ability to comprehend, manipulate and program the many technological devices that have become commonplace in our lives. In the same spot, deep in my own brain, exists a gaping void, revealing what I can only guess is a "gender-ational" gap between my own abilities and those of my techno-savvy son.
At age 11, Nick has developed a Midas touch with all things that require users to be electronically, mechanically and technologically inclined. This seemingly innate ability became especially apparent recently when I reluctantly replaced a five year old cell phone.
A mere two years into the life of my phone, I stopped by the store where I had purchased it to inquire about the cost of a supplementary charger. The sales person, who was practically still a child, laughed openly at me.
Apparently, it was completely ridiculous to ask such a thing; this two-year-old phone had long ago become obsolete, so whatever would they still be stocking the chargers for?
Nick also felt an obvious distaste for my old phone, which was about the size of a one pound block of butter. When he heads out to play street hockey in our neighborhood, I send along my cell phone so I am able to reach him. He happily obliges now that I have a new phone. However, when I would attempt to hand him the old cell phone, he would recoil, as if in fear, hands raised in the air. "I’m not taking that!" he would say, as though it would surely sear the flesh of his palm on contact.
He was delighted when the old phone made its last call. I, on the other hand, was troubled about having to learn all the bells and whistles of a new phone, given how long it had taken me to master the features on the old one. Reluctantly, I headed back to the store.
I perused the many types of phones and carefully considered their features. I was quite sure that I would not use text messaging, and asked the sales person if I could please see a model without this unnecessary feature. Once again, I was laughed at (they ALL have text messaging now), this time by a young man, who, suspiciously, seemed even younger than the girl on my last visit.
I chose what appeared to be one of the simplest models available. I brought it home and the kids were thrilled. How exciting! A new phone with a camera (because you never know when you might need one) AND text messaging. The phone became the kids’ Friday evening activity.
Nick customized the screen by adding a picture of himself and his sister, taken with the automatic setting.
Next, he moved on to the text messaging feature and with little effort, text-ed (what kind of word is that, anyway?) messages to my email address.
I sat by helplessly, wishing that I could contribute, in some small way, to the programming of my phone. I flipped through the instruction booklet (which is similar in thickness to my old phone) and marveled at how easily all this came to Nick.
When he began to program phone numbers, I dutifully recited them. Eventually, he agreed to let me try, but soon re-claimed his role after it became clear that it would be easier if he just did it himself.
In addition to Nick’s inexplicable and in-depth knowledge of cell phones, he graciously programs my music onto (or is that into?) his mp3 player. He convinced me that this makes a much better walking companion than a compact disc player strapped to my waist by a cumbersome hip sack. He has also become the family photographer, a role I gave up when our 35 mm was replaced by a digital camera. I suspect if we ever programmed our antiquated VCR, he would do that, as well.
I can no longer solve any computer problem that Nick can’t solve himself. In fact, we have experienced a bit of a role reversal in that department. A few weeks ago I mentioned, to nobody in particular, that my computer retreats too quickly into sleep mode. "I can help you with that, mom," Nick said as he confidently sat down beside me and began to journey into the unknown of my desk top. After a quick couple of clicks, he nonchalantly got up and said, "There you go."
And – oh, what a sweet boy he is - unlike the youngsters at the phone store, he didn’t even laugh as he said it.
Girly-girl or Goalie?
Originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record
Ever since my daughter was old enough to express her very strong opinions about toys, clothing and anything else adorned with or made from any sort of pink or frilly materials, she has made her preferences for these items clear.
For a while, we resisted indulging her "girly-girl tendencies," hoping to entice her instead with toys that could be considered somewhat gender neutral.
As with so many other things since becoming parents, we realized that we were fighting a losing battle.
Early in Elena’s life, when family members and friends asked what types of toys we felt would be appropriate for our young daughter, we suggested that they invest in educational toys, rather than toys typically considered for girls.
We struggled to hold off the inevitable onslaught of "girl toys;" we cited safety reasons to forbid high heeled dress-up shoes, inherited skin sensitivities to ban play make-up, and... well, vetoing Barbie really required no excuse at all.
Now, we have it all: Barbies, Bratz and billions of accessories. Gowns, tiaras, wands and wings.
Elena chose a "Top Model" theme for her recent 8th birthday party. I strongly recommended a princess, karaoke, or dance theme, but her mind was made up.
I wistfully sighed and thought fondly of her princess days of the past.
When booking the party, I requested that the guests’ makeovers not be overdone, and realized how ridiculous it was to use the words "makeovers" and "appropriate for eight year olds" in the same sentence.
Following a meticulously tallied countdown, party night finally arrived. The girls had their hair, nails and makeup done while my husband and I watched, bewildered, as their excitement and delight reached fever pitch.
Next they walked on the "runway," twirled and blew kisses as instructed by the "modeling coach."
Eventually, they could no longer contain their true selves, when they seemed to explode with excitement and began to run around, bouncing off the walls (literally) like the little kids they are. It was clearly not behaviour becoming of models. (Phew!)
This may have been the only time I can say that I was quite happy to see their less than perfect table manners when they sat down (sort of) for their sandwiches and cake and sang (sort of) Happy Birthday.
In addition to her glamorous side, Elena is also a nurturer, which of course, is not a trait limited to girls. I must say, though, that in our household, our 11-year old son is much more likely to throw a stuffed toy like a football, than to make sure it eats enough for dinner before tucking it into a lovingly prepared bed.
After pleading for what seemed an eternity – to both of us – Elena was finally able to purchase a stuffed toy she desperately wanted and "every single one of her friends already had" but her.
Our visit to the Build-a-Bear store was an over-stimulating experience – for both of us. Well-dressed and heavily accessorized bears, monkeys and dogs perched all around the store greeting us with outstretched arms. Each offered, not at all subliminally, countless ideas for mixing and matching outfits. There were mini purses, sunglasses, cell phones, backpacks, roller skates and more. Lots more.
Elena "built" a monkey. Maddie has a friendly smile and stuffed, furry limbs that frankly, are more realistic and much easier to dress than her collection of impossibly svelte Barbies.
She excitedly considered outfits and accessories that would exhaust her quickly- dwindling birthday resources, while I countered with suggestions in an attempt to convince her it would be wise to save some of her money. I was shocked by the price of some of the clothing that cost more than many of the outfits hanging in my human daughter’s closet.
I actually did enjoy Elena’s excitement at the store (and was able to contain my opinion), and I do appreciate the type of play Maddie encourages …but I can’t help but resent the fact that that, in order to furnish Maddie’s house, we practically have to mortgage ours!
In addition to all the typical female characteristics my daughter exhibits, Elena is not afraid to get her hands dirty. She still makes a mean mud-pie, and remarkably, given her size, can give anyone a run for their money when it comes to shooting baskets.
And though my son can barely tolerate her play habits otherwise, he openly admires her goalie skills as she demonstrates her ability to deflect the pelting of his wrist shot.
Elena is kind, sweet, fun and friendly. And we’re doing our very best to enjoy and make the most of these years, as we very patiently await what we have lived in fear of since the day she was born... the teen years.
Ever since my daughter was old enough to express her very strong opinions about toys, clothing and anything else adorned with or made from any sort of pink or frilly materials, she has made her preferences for these items clear.
For a while, we resisted indulging her "girly-girl tendencies," hoping to entice her instead with toys that could be considered somewhat gender neutral.
As with so many other things since becoming parents, we realized that we were fighting a losing battle.
Early in Elena’s life, when family members and friends asked what types of toys we felt would be appropriate for our young daughter, we suggested that they invest in educational toys, rather than toys typically considered for girls.
We struggled to hold off the inevitable onslaught of "girl toys;" we cited safety reasons to forbid high heeled dress-up shoes, inherited skin sensitivities to ban play make-up, and... well, vetoing Barbie really required no excuse at all.
Now, we have it all: Barbies, Bratz and billions of accessories. Gowns, tiaras, wands and wings.
Elena chose a "Top Model" theme for her recent 8th birthday party. I strongly recommended a princess, karaoke, or dance theme, but her mind was made up.
I wistfully sighed and thought fondly of her princess days of the past.
When booking the party, I requested that the guests’ makeovers not be overdone, and realized how ridiculous it was to use the words "makeovers" and "appropriate for eight year olds" in the same sentence.
Following a meticulously tallied countdown, party night finally arrived. The girls had their hair, nails and makeup done while my husband and I watched, bewildered, as their excitement and delight reached fever pitch.
Next they walked on the "runway," twirled and blew kisses as instructed by the "modeling coach."
Eventually, they could no longer contain their true selves, when they seemed to explode with excitement and began to run around, bouncing off the walls (literally) like the little kids they are. It was clearly not behaviour becoming of models. (Phew!)
This may have been the only time I can say that I was quite happy to see their less than perfect table manners when they sat down (sort of) for their sandwiches and cake and sang (sort of) Happy Birthday.
In addition to her glamorous side, Elena is also a nurturer, which of course, is not a trait limited to girls. I must say, though, that in our household, our 11-year old son is much more likely to throw a stuffed toy like a football, than to make sure it eats enough for dinner before tucking it into a lovingly prepared bed.
After pleading for what seemed an eternity – to both of us – Elena was finally able to purchase a stuffed toy she desperately wanted and "every single one of her friends already had" but her.
Our visit to the Build-a-Bear store was an over-stimulating experience – for both of us. Well-dressed and heavily accessorized bears, monkeys and dogs perched all around the store greeting us with outstretched arms. Each offered, not at all subliminally, countless ideas for mixing and matching outfits. There were mini purses, sunglasses, cell phones, backpacks, roller skates and more. Lots more.
Elena "built" a monkey. Maddie has a friendly smile and stuffed, furry limbs that frankly, are more realistic and much easier to dress than her collection of impossibly svelte Barbies.
She excitedly considered outfits and accessories that would exhaust her quickly- dwindling birthday resources, while I countered with suggestions in an attempt to convince her it would be wise to save some of her money. I was shocked by the price of some of the clothing that cost more than many of the outfits hanging in my human daughter’s closet.
I actually did enjoy Elena’s excitement at the store (and was able to contain my opinion), and I do appreciate the type of play Maddie encourages …but I can’t help but resent the fact that that, in order to furnish Maddie’s house, we practically have to mortgage ours!
In addition to all the typical female characteristics my daughter exhibits, Elena is not afraid to get her hands dirty. She still makes a mean mud-pie, and remarkably, given her size, can give anyone a run for their money when it comes to shooting baskets.
And though my son can barely tolerate her play habits otherwise, he openly admires her goalie skills as she demonstrates her ability to deflect the pelting of his wrist shot.
Elena is kind, sweet, fun and friendly. And we’re doing our very best to enjoy and make the most of these years, as we very patiently await what we have lived in fear of since the day she was born... the teen years.
Becoming a (gasp!) Hockey Mom
Originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, January 2007.
How could this have happened? I was raised in a good home, attended a reputable university, spent much of my childhood and youth avoiding organized sports, and yet, the truly unthinkable has occurred: I have become a hockey fan.
There is, however, a distinct difference between my level of fanaticism and the guy who cries like a baby when "his" team loses the Stanley Cup during the last period of Game 7. (But frankly, the fact that I know and use the phrase "game 7" concerns me.)
My "poison" is Atom hockey. For those of you less savvy with the lingo, that’s little-kid hockey.
Although I have yet to stop criticizing my husband for the time he wastes as an occasional N.H.L. fan, I now have to consider the feelings of my 10 year old son. I no longer verbally express my opinion and still, my discrete facial contortions are much easier to decipher than the actual point to Don Cherry’s mono syllabic ramblings.
This is a revelation that shocks many of my friends who knew me before I had children. One friend, in particular, is childless and therefore not aware of the parental tendency to regularly eat words spoken pre-kids. A former competitive swimmer, she takes great pleasure in reminding me of my soapbox rants during which I apparently stated that MY children would never play organized sports. Instead, they would enthusiastically participate in many exciting library programs and a variety of other intellectually stimulating, non-competitive activities.
Now, whenever our conversation turns to hockey, I brace myself as she winds up with a cackle and shoots, "Ha! Hockey mom!" directly at me.
Our hockey experience began when our son, Nick, was five. I’m quite sure that first day of the hockey fundamentals program, before his skates were even tied, was the top of my slippery slope.
We were in the car, seatbelts fastened when I realized I had forgotten the camera. My husband, who doesn’t usually indulge my need to photo-document such momentous occasions, no doubt sensed it would be wise to nurture this emerging fondness. He waited patiently while I rushed back into the house.
Now, five years later while watching my son’s games, I have shamelessly joined the other parents in the unusual but wide-spread practice of constantly muttering (SOME MORE LOUDLY THAN OTHERS) useless advice to the players on the ice. "Go! Go! Yes! Shoot! Oh, nice try!" …as if our kids can hear us, or our words have any impact at all on the game.
This change in my personality is entirely the result of Nick’s contagious enthusiasm for the game. Tempting as it is to revert back to my old ways and suggest it’s contagious… just like the flu, I have to admit that I am beginning to wear my "hockey mom" badge with pride – much like the button that bares my son’s smiling face, thankfully with all of his teeth still in place.
I feel the most pride, not in my son’s ability, but in his unwavering commitment to the game. Nick is quite small, but plays hockey like he’s the only one in the arena who doesn’t know this. He’s fast, sharp and intensely focused, and as I watch him play, I easily forget that once the game ends and we’re back at home, he will be exercising a very different set of highly-developed skills: procrastination. We argue, as we always do, about his bedtime as he (very slowly) has a snack, shower and completes his homework.
But I simply can’t help but share his enthusiasm, and admire his commitment to the time he spends on the ice.
Great game, kid! Now brush your teeth and go to bed.
How could this have happened? I was raised in a good home, attended a reputable university, spent much of my childhood and youth avoiding organized sports, and yet, the truly unthinkable has occurred: I have become a hockey fan.
There is, however, a distinct difference between my level of fanaticism and the guy who cries like a baby when "his" team loses the Stanley Cup during the last period of Game 7. (But frankly, the fact that I know and use the phrase "game 7" concerns me.)
My "poison" is Atom hockey. For those of you less savvy with the lingo, that’s little-kid hockey.
Although I have yet to stop criticizing my husband for the time he wastes as an occasional N.H.L. fan, I now have to consider the feelings of my 10 year old son. I no longer verbally express my opinion and still, my discrete facial contortions are much easier to decipher than the actual point to Don Cherry’s mono syllabic ramblings.
This is a revelation that shocks many of my friends who knew me before I had children. One friend, in particular, is childless and therefore not aware of the parental tendency to regularly eat words spoken pre-kids. A former competitive swimmer, she takes great pleasure in reminding me of my soapbox rants during which I apparently stated that MY children would never play organized sports. Instead, they would enthusiastically participate in many exciting library programs and a variety of other intellectually stimulating, non-competitive activities.
Now, whenever our conversation turns to hockey, I brace myself as she winds up with a cackle and shoots, "Ha! Hockey mom!" directly at me.
Our hockey experience began when our son, Nick, was five. I’m quite sure that first day of the hockey fundamentals program, before his skates were even tied, was the top of my slippery slope.
We were in the car, seatbelts fastened when I realized I had forgotten the camera. My husband, who doesn’t usually indulge my need to photo-document such momentous occasions, no doubt sensed it would be wise to nurture this emerging fondness. He waited patiently while I rushed back into the house.
Now, five years later while watching my son’s games, I have shamelessly joined the other parents in the unusual but wide-spread practice of constantly muttering (SOME MORE LOUDLY THAN OTHERS) useless advice to the players on the ice. "Go! Go! Yes! Shoot! Oh, nice try!" …as if our kids can hear us, or our words have any impact at all on the game.
This change in my personality is entirely the result of Nick’s contagious enthusiasm for the game. Tempting as it is to revert back to my old ways and suggest it’s contagious… just like the flu, I have to admit that I am beginning to wear my "hockey mom" badge with pride – much like the button that bares my son’s smiling face, thankfully with all of his teeth still in place.
I feel the most pride, not in my son’s ability, but in his unwavering commitment to the game. Nick is quite small, but plays hockey like he’s the only one in the arena who doesn’t know this. He’s fast, sharp and intensely focused, and as I watch him play, I easily forget that once the game ends and we’re back at home, he will be exercising a very different set of highly-developed skills: procrastination. We argue, as we always do, about his bedtime as he (very slowly) has a snack, shower and completes his homework.
But I simply can’t help but share his enthusiasm, and admire his commitment to the time he spends on the ice.
Great game, kid! Now brush your teeth and go to bed.
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