As if our lives weren’t already busy enough, about a year and a half ago, we realized there were a few bits and pieces of time available to stuff with more action and activity…so we got a puppy.

I really do find it amusing that we have a live animal wandering around, making our house its home.  To earn her keep, this butler-of-sorts eagerly announces visitors, cleans up spills from the floor and provides on-going entertainment and insight into the fascinating human-canine connection.  Our Australian Shepherd, Dingo, gives us much to marvel at.

We often hear how intelligent this breed of dog is, which leaves me wondering if I’m smart enough to play Alpha to her Einstein.  Try as I may, I can’t figure out some of her behaviours…or mine, as her owner.

Given that I am reasonably uptight about germs – and I’m not referring to those that spawn the common cold - remarkably, I don’t rush to boil my mouth and seek out a full course of antibiotics after Dingo head butts my face and her wet tongue spreads slobber onto my chin, mouth and nose.  Instead, I banish the thoughts of the morsels she’s been snacking on in the back yard after the rabbits have been to play, the cornucopia of “treats” in the woods, and the country roads frequented by horses.

When discussing general dog training advice with the woman at the pet store, she inquired if our dog is “treat motivated.”  I laughed.  The word “motivated” does not begin to describe the intensity of Dingo’s behaviour when there is a remote possibility of treat disbursement.  “Obsessive” and “fanatical” are far more apt, as she will frantically and comically attempt to perform any trick or obey any command when the prospect of a treat looms in her immediate future. 

Dingo needs near-constant reminders to heel, come, sit…and refrain from demonstrating her fondness for some people by leaping unbelievably high and jamming her nose into the face of her object of unbridled adoration.  But if we break a rule, even just once, she sees it as an invitation to start a delightful new habit which is as hard to break as a non-splintering marrow bone.  If, during a weak moment, we allow her on the couch, she will continue to confidently hop back up, looking innocently like it’s us humans who have stupidly forgotten the new and improved rule.

But most amusing is her irrational fear of inanimate objects…

When I reach for the broom to sweep, my grasp barely closes on the handle and Dingo senses, from wherever in the house she is, the “need” to leap to attention. I’m certain I hear the theme to “Mission Impossible” as her eyes snap wide open, her head turns abruptly, and in stealth mode, she skids down hallways and slides around corners.  She then mercilessly tackles the bristles of the broom with a vigour that suggests she is saving her mistress from almost certain demise.

We don’t mind that she gets wet – she is a dog, after all – but she seems to have developed an irrational fear of …the towel.  Whenever she comes in from the rain, she dodges anybody who could be concealing a towel on his or her person.  She dashes into her kennel, turns and settles in, as though she’s been there for hours.  After a few minutes, she’ll venture out to join us, but not before suspiciously peeking around the corner, checking to see if anybody is menacingly wielding Terry the Terrible.

Although dog ownership can be filed, without question, under “What were we thinking?” we do enjoy our crazy dog.

 

 

read my latest column at the Record

http://news.therecord.com/Life/Columnist/article/640651

10 Per cent empty, or 90 per cent full?

originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, November 24, 2009.

There is a common, exasperated statement that I often hear, say, and have come to realize has a double meaning: we’re so busy, we can never get anything done.

Taken literally, this statement can be interpreted in two different ways. Although we regularly do the dishes, do the laundry and do the grocery shopping, it’s not the actual doing, it’s the finishing of these and many other chores required to keep a household running smoothly, that cause the problem.

Through various stages in our lives, we have joked with long-time friends that, based on what we observed in ourselves and others, we should execute an awesome, fail-proof business idea. “The 10 Per Cent Guy” would swoop in, no doubt dressed in shining armour, and complete the final 10 per cent of the jobs around the house that just aren’t getting completed. These are tasks that are done to the point of being tolerable…but not finished.

My husband and I undertook major renovations of our first house when expecting a baby. Stupidly - and no, that’s not too strong a word - we decided to do much of the work ourselves. Not at all according to plan, our son was born three weeks early and we brought him home to the squalor of incomplete renovations. We had little time to do anything but assume the sleepless, zombie-like state required to care for a newborn.

Once upon a time, I was reasonably good at ensuring that projects were seen through to completion in a timely manner. At that point in my life, I hadn’t yet “adjusted” my standards to suit our new reality and was dismayed…and so young and very naïve. I thought it was absolutely ridiculous that three weeks would make a difference when it came to the completion such a major project.

I now realize that, as far as cushions of time go, three weeks is huge, and similar in size to that provided by the mattresses stacked up in that storybook classic, the Princess and Pea. Our happy ending occurred four months later when the renovated upstairs rooms were suitable to inhabit…but still had about 10 per cent of work to be done.

There are other tasks that usually get done, but never finished.

No matter how meticulously I follow my list while shopping, I always realize what is still needed as soon as I return from the store or market. I can never hope to be grocery (sigh) list-less.

The laundry and dishes too, are never really finished though I do feel a great deal of satisfaction when I can actually see the bottom of the hamper and the top of the counter. But even a quick glance away and someone has dirtied a dish or changed clothes, sometimes offering up a double whammy when one precedes the other.

Most kids are known to sincerely wonder what the point is in making a bed when it’s going to be slept in soon again, anyway. A wise woman I know maintains that one of the benefits of living in style of house other than a bungalow is that guests will never know if you don’t make your bed. I live in a two story, and I have to admit to sometimes employing the “out of sight, out of mind” approach to help create the illusion of tidiness.

The “Ten Percent Guy” recently came up in conversation with my long time friend. She has decided to now be happy with the 90 per cent that actually does get done, instead of fixating on the undone.

I’m still working on it.

"The danger of a single story" by Chimamanda Adichie

Click here for my latest column at the Record

Overly "motivated," Dingo is a joy to own

originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 27, 2009.

As if our lives weren’t already busy enough, about a year and a half ago, we realized there were a few bits and pieces of time available to stuff with more action and activity…so we got a puppy.

It really does amuse me that there is an animal wandering around, making our house its home. This butler-of-sorts eagerly announces visitors, cleans up spills from the floor, acts as a personal trainer, and provides on-going entertainment and insight into the fascinating human-canine connection. Our Australian Shepherd, Dingo, gives us much to marvel at.

We often hear how intelligent this breed of dog is, which makes me wonder if I’m smart enough to play Alpha to her Einstein. Try as I may, I can’t figure out some of her behaviours…or mine, as her owner.

Given that I am reasonably uptight about germs – not those that spawn the common cold - remarkably, I don’t rush to wash out my mouth or seek a full course of antibiotics after Dingo head butts my face and her wet tongue spreads slobber onto my chin, mouth and nose. Instead, I banish the thoughts of the morsels she’s been snacking on in the back yard after the rabbits have been to visit, and while walking on the country roads frequented by horses.

When discussing dog training at the pet store, the clerk inquired if our dog is “treat motivated.” I laughed. The word “motivated” does not begin to describe the intensity of Dingo’s behaviour when there is a possibility of treat disbursement. “Obsessive” and “fanatical” are words that leap to mind, as she frantically attempts to perform any trick or obey any command when the prospect of a treat looms in her immediate future.

Dingo needs near-constant reminders to heel, sit, stay…and refrain from demonstrating her fondness for some people by leaping unbelievably high and jamming her nose into the face of her object of unbridled adoration. But if we allow a rule to be broken, even just once, she sees it as an invitation to start a delightful new habit which is as hard to break as a non-splintering marrow bone. If, during a weak moment, we allow her on the couch, she will continue to confidently hop back up, looking innocently like it’s us humans who have forgotten the new and improved rule.

But most amusing is her irrational fear of inanimate objects…

When my grasp barely closes on the handle of the broom, Dingo senses, from wherever she is, the “need” to leap to attention. I’m certain I hear the theme to “Mission Impossible” as her eyes snap wide open, her head turns abruptly, and in stealth mode, she skids down hallways and slides around corners. She then mercilessly attacks the bristles of the broom with a vigour that suggests she is saving her mistress from almost certain demise.

We don’t mind when she gets wet – she is a dog, after all – but she seems to have developed an intense fear of …the towel. Whenever she comes in from the rain, she dodges anybody who could be concealing a towel on his or her person. She dashes to the safety of her kennel, and settles in, knowing we won’t attempt to dry her while she’s there. Eventually, she’ll venture back out, but not before suspiciously peeking around the corner to see if anybody is wielding Terry the Terrible.

Although dog ownership can be filed, without question, under W for “What were we thinking,” life with Dingo really is enjoyable. Just ask her…and if you happen to have a treat in your pocket, she’ll do everything possible to speak the answer!

Not exactly "a day at the park"

originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 13, 2009.

Over the years, there have been moments that have rudely heralded the undeniable fact that my youth is slipping from my increasingly wrinkly grasp. Not the least traumatic of these occurred about seven years ago when my kids were six and three. Both were constant climbers, scrambling over, under, in and out of small spaces with total ease and fluidity. Once, as I watched them take turns climbing in and out of an upright toy box with sliding doors, I estimated that surely, my frame too, would fit comfortably into the box.

I was absolutely right; the box was large enough to fit my lower half, when folded just so. Unfortunately, though I neglected to give any forethought to…getting back out. Like Winnie the Pooh, my torso stuck awkwardly out of one of the sliding doors, while the rest of my contorted body waited patiently to untangle into the freedom of, anywhere but the confines of that toy box.

Giggling, my son firmly gripped my hands and pulled, while my daughter pulled him by his waist.

Next, they offered matter-of-fact suggestions: cut down on my honey consumption or, call Dad (never!) at work. Eventually, I was able to detach both doors of the toy box and slowly, excruciatingly, free the remainder of myself.

As a result of this and other serious miscalculations about my size, shape and physical abilities I was becoming aware that perhaps my physique had changed since having children. A family visit to a water park this summer further solidified this thought, when I tried to keep up with my now 13 and 10-year-old kids.

Early in the day, I was quite pleased to be easily maintaining the kids’ pace as I confidently scurried up the concrete steps, and endured the battering of each ride down the slides.

As the day wore on, however, all I was pleased about was my previous good sense to have sent our 13-year-old for first aid training. I was pretty sure my husband, moments before bright red from exertion and then an alarming pasty white, would not have the strength to administer chest compressions, or the extra breath to revive me from what I felt certain was imminent collapse.

I continued to haul myself up the stairs, one gruelling step at a time, grasping the railing desperately. I fondly remembered of the days when I could easily get in and out of a fair-sized toy box, and sit crossed leg without suffering aching muscles and drunken-like wavering when attempting to return upright.
When the kids decided to move onto a slide that, after watching for a bit we dubbed the “Treacherous Tunnel of Terror,” my husband and I decided it was time for us to become spectators. From the bottom, we could see each rider enter the enclosed slide, and then hear intermittent, smashing thumps as he or she was hurled from side to side. We would then see a shadow spin around, at high speed in “the cyclone” portion of the slide, immediately prior to the rider plunging, limbs flailing, into the pool below. Children would surface giggling, older folk, wincing and rubbing an elbow, shoulder or newly acquired skin discolouration growing darker before our eyes.

My kids couldn’t wait to ride again and again, trying repeatedly to convince those of us over 40 to join them. We resisted, assuring them that we would watch, camera poised, ready to preserve their spectacular drops forever.

…or at least long enough to provide them with an effective “I remember when…” moment when they begin to feel their own inevitable signs of aging.

Letting the Leaves Fall...

originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, October 2009.


This September, I am recognizing in myself what could be considered a neurotic tendency to fixate on words.

Amoung my favourites (words, not neurotic tendencies) are those which provide comically accurate descriptions or implications of events, objects and, teetering precariously near the top of the list, states of mind.

Take, for example, the connotation of, and the actual word, “scattered.”

And I’m not referring to the way beautifully coloured autumn leaves lay scattered on the ground after flitting gracefully from outstretched branches.

What I am referring to are my efforts to switch gears, back to what almost every conversation with parents includes at this time of year: routine. I have been trying, with limited success, to recognize the value of this firmly impaled thorn-in-my-side, while trying to achieve all that it implies.

However, my efforts have been, minus the beauty and grace, much like the leaves that have fallen haphazardly to the ground.

As a child, my September routine included a promise to myself that I would adhere to a strict regimen: my homework would be completed immediately upon my arrival home each day, and my notebooks would be kept meticulously tidy. For a couple of weeks, I lived up to these pledges.

But, soon after about week three, the painstaking forming of each stroke of every letter became too much, and many other diversions had nudged their way into the time needed to maintain what I, by then, had assured myself were unreasonable standards, anyway.

Now, as a parent, I remember this about myself, and balance it with the importance of setting a good example as I encourage my kids to fully capitalize on the fresh opportunities to develop and maintain excellent work habits.

I’ve realized, though, that in my case, the bar needs to be set a tiny bit lower (dangerous territory, I know) when re-establishing a September routine. Because, aside from ensuring my kids eat three meals a day and go to bed at some point when it’s dark, I’m reluctant to call much of anything else right now a sure thing. Even though their attendance at school is pretty high on the list, in the negligible number of days since their return, both my 13 and 10 year-olds have missed the bus twice, and one has spent a day sick at home.

So if I need to grasp at small successes (and I do), I can really only claim true victory on the basics which simply include food and sleep.

And I’m hesitant even to take full credit for those.

Early in September, we (OK, I) decided that lunches would be prepared and packed an almost-worrisome amount of time ahead. For the first couple of school mornings the children would flee my commentary about how great it feels to simply grab the lunch bags from the fridge, and stuff them into backpacks on the way out the door. Now, just as we fondly remember those long summer days when the trees still held their leaves, early-made lunches have also become a thing of the past.

I find ways to placate myself; it’s still kind of summer, after all. This is an excellent excuse, and we embraced and over-used it last weekend when we opted to accept invitations to friends’ swimming pools, rather than settling into the routine of fall chores that need (still…need) to be done around the house.

I have complete confidence that, as we always do, we’ll eventually struggle our way back on top of our back-to-school routine.

But surely, I can delay it until the last of the leaves have fallen.

Working together toward...

Home Improvement

Things kids (and parents) say again, and again, and again

things kids say

and,

things adults say

What my daughter's dance performance means for me

Stop the Clock!

read column

Taking a Trip

click here to read column

Hockey fun...for everyone!

click here to read column

Getting out more...while staying in?

click here to read column

NOT in the dog house

I was so sure she would LOVE the dog house...or at least prefer it to a deck chair!

Behaving like a...Dingo

click here to read column

Going to the dogs

click here to read column

Eating Crow...and lots of it

the early days of dog ownership

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

My Family's Dirty Laundry

click here to read column

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.

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."

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!

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

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.

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.

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.

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.