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Wednesday, July 3, 2013
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Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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Our children’s preferences as different as the seasons
As our family excitedly anticipates summer holidays, I wonder if the time of year we first entered the world helps to determine our future preferences. Although both my kids absolutely love summer, my oldest (who was born during a snowstorm and prefers winter) took a little longer to develop his fondness for one common activity of our warmest season.
What my kids love most about this time of year are the non-stop opportunities to be outside and especially, swimming. Both of their first summers included dipping their tiny toes into a clear, natural lake ... with polar opposite reactions. The “win-fint” who loves the winter, was distressed, while the “spr-aby” who made her entrance on the first day of spring, was delighted.
At 14, Nick swims like a fish. He loves to dip, flip, dive, spin, toss and be tossed into whatever body of water happens to be in front of him. Whether it’s a pool or lake, the temperature — though it does determine how quickly he gets in — doesn’t deter him, as he flaps around like Aquaman, completely at home in whatever wet wonderland he is plunging into at the time.
However, his first exposure to summer swimming did not at all suggest that he would appreciate it like he does now.
It was a beautiful summer day as I stood knee deep in the water, holding my six-month-old baby, playfully lowering him toward the surface. Alarmed, he frantically tucked his little legs up as far up as was physically possible, and the look on his face was one of great fear and indignation as first his toes, then feet, then knees became submerged. This wide-eyed child was clearly shocked and dismayed that his parents, whom he had grown to love and trust, would subject him to such aquatic anguish.
His reaction shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the intensity with which he hated the bath as a new baby. He would scream, thrash, and turn an angry shade of purple, even though we took great care to ensure that the water condition was suitably baby-friendly, so as not to overheat our child, or plunge him into the frigid waters of the Fisher-Price tub of torture.
Early in our March baby’s life, we discovered that when inconsolable, Elena could be immediately soothed by the bath. Each clenched, flailing limb would relax as the water surrounded her, and she’d breathe a visible and audible sigh of relief. For Elena, a bath was all it took to make everything well with the world. During her fussiest times, it was not uncommon for one of us parents to throw our arms in the air, and yell above the crying, “OK, OK, I’ll get the tub!” (I remember reading about weaning a baby off of a pacifier, but worried that I could find no information about tub dependence!)
Now at age 11, she still loves the water. She’ll swim anywhere, any time, even in cottage country in (shiver) May. Her introduction to lake water was entirely different from Nick’s. She giggled, splashed and struggled to be released from my grasp. We dipped, dunked and dallied ... and eventually, much to her dismay, departed. Her screams pierced the air as she lunged for the lake with outstretched arms while being carried away.
Like most kids, mine find many wonderful things about every Canadian season. I do find it fishy though, that the kid who was born in a snowstorm, speaks fondly and longingly about the winter during what is, without question, the most wonderful season of all ... so says the July baby.
What my kids love most about this time of year are the non-stop opportunities to be outside and especially, swimming. Both of their first summers included dipping their tiny toes into a clear, natural lake ... with polar opposite reactions. The “win-fint” who loves the winter, was distressed, while the “spr-aby” who made her entrance on the first day of spring, was delighted.
At 14, Nick swims like a fish. He loves to dip, flip, dive, spin, toss and be tossed into whatever body of water happens to be in front of him. Whether it’s a pool or lake, the temperature — though it does determine how quickly he gets in — doesn’t deter him, as he flaps around like Aquaman, completely at home in whatever wet wonderland he is plunging into at the time.
However, his first exposure to summer swimming did not at all suggest that he would appreciate it like he does now.
It was a beautiful summer day as I stood knee deep in the water, holding my six-month-old baby, playfully lowering him toward the surface. Alarmed, he frantically tucked his little legs up as far up as was physically possible, and the look on his face was one of great fear and indignation as first his toes, then feet, then knees became submerged. This wide-eyed child was clearly shocked and dismayed that his parents, whom he had grown to love and trust, would subject him to such aquatic anguish.
His reaction shouldn’t have been a surprise, given the intensity with which he hated the bath as a new baby. He would scream, thrash, and turn an angry shade of purple, even though we took great care to ensure that the water condition was suitably baby-friendly, so as not to overheat our child, or plunge him into the frigid waters of the Fisher-Price tub of torture.
Early in our March baby’s life, we discovered that when inconsolable, Elena could be immediately soothed by the bath. Each clenched, flailing limb would relax as the water surrounded her, and she’d breathe a visible and audible sigh of relief. For Elena, a bath was all it took to make everything well with the world. During her fussiest times, it was not uncommon for one of us parents to throw our arms in the air, and yell above the crying, “OK, OK, I’ll get the tub!” (I remember reading about weaning a baby off of a pacifier, but worried that I could find no information about tub dependence!)
Now at age 11, she still loves the water. She’ll swim anywhere, any time, even in cottage country in (shiver) May. Her introduction to lake water was entirely different from Nick’s. She giggled, splashed and struggled to be released from my grasp. We dipped, dunked and dallied ... and eventually, much to her dismay, departed. Her screams pierced the air as she lunged for the lake with outstretched arms while being carried away.
Like most kids, mine find many wonderful things about every Canadian season. I do find it fishy though, that the kid who was born in a snowstorm, speaks fondly and longingly about the winter during what is, without question, the most wonderful season of all ... so says the July baby.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, June 2010.
If my family lived in sub-Saharan Africa, the chances are pretty good that there would be fewer of us than there are living here in Southwestern Ontario.
In fact, not only would we have fewer family members, but the family configuration would be almost unrecognizable in our society.
Because if we did live in sub-Saharan Africa, my mother would probably be raising my two children…and that’s if both were still alive, which is unlikely because, of the 13 million AIDS orphans in those countries alone, half die before the age of two.
As for me, the reason my mom would be raising my kids is that practically my entire generation in African countries like Botswana, Mozambique and Zimbabwe has died in the AIDS pandemic.
But, as luck would have it, mine are healthy and thriving Canadian children who have just about everything they could ever ask for, and most certainly, everything they “need.” Again, this is not the case for children in many African countries. Before AIDS orphans can thrive, they need to survive.
The “Grandmothers to Grandmothers” campaign involves Canadian grandmothers and “grand-others” who support the millions of African grandmothers who have watched their own children die of AIDS, and are now raising their grandchildren, many of whom are also infected.
On June 12, Grandmother groups across Canada, including Kitchener-Waterloo’s Omas Siskona (grandmothers together) and Mama KubWas, will “Stride to Turn the Tide” on HIV/AIDS in Africa. By walking, Canadian grandmothers will show solidarity with African grandmothers and raise money and awareness of their situation.
Three generations of my family will walk, and we will savour the opportunity to spend part of the day outside, together. We’ll wear our hats and sunscreen, and will worry about little else but arriving on time to a minor sporting activity later in the day.
When African grandmothers walk, it is out of the necessity to find food, water and firewood so that their families can survive. For them, walking is work, not pleasure or exercise.
But, regardless of an unfathomable discrepancy in resources, there are ways in which African grandmothers are absolutely the same as Canadian grandmothers: both are fiercely committed to doing what’s best for their grandchildren.
Both also know that in order to Turn the Tide of the HIV/AIDS pandemic in Africa, affordable antiretroviral drugs and free education for their grandchildren are needed to help break the cycle of poverty.
The walk on June 12 will also serve as a reminder of Canada’s humanitarian promise to provide affordable, generic life-saving drugs under legislation known as Canada’s Access to Medicines Regime (CAMR), which requires the passing of Bill C-393.
As well, the walk will encourage support for Education for All, which states, among other things, that education is a fundamental human right, and a means by which developing countries can achieve sustainable development and stability.
According to Stephen Lewis, the former UN Secretary-General’s Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa, and the inspiration behind the Canadian Grandmothers’ efforts, more than half a million children die of AIDS every year, “simply because the world imposes such an obscene division between rich and poor.”
I find myself struck by these poignant words which are so entirely simple and yet, inconceivably complicated.
And if you’re reading this, as I am while writing it, with a coffee in your hand and your children safe at school, you probably feel very much the same way as I do…lucky.
Walkers are invited to join the Grandmothers on Saturday, June 12 at Waterloo Park Area 1 at 9:30 a.m. Learn more about their campaign and the Stephen Lewis Foundation at www.grandmotherscampaign.org/
If my family lived in sub-Saharan Africa, the chances are pretty good that there would be fewer of us than there are living here in Southwestern Ontario.
In fact, not only would we have fewer family members, but the family configuration would be almost unrecognizable in our society.
Because if we did live in sub-Saharan Africa, my mother would probably be raising my two children…and that’s if both were still alive, which is unlikely because, of the 13 million AIDS orphans in those countries alone, half die before the age of two.
As for me, the reason my mom would be raising my kids is that practically my entire generation in African countries like Botswana, Mozambique and Zimbabwe has died in the AIDS pandemic.
But, as luck would have it, mine are healthy and thriving Canadian children who have just about everything they could ever ask for, and most certainly, everything they “need.” Again, this is not the case for children in many African countries. Before AIDS orphans can thrive, they need to survive.
The “Grandmothers to Grandmothers” campaign involves Canadian grandmothers and “grand-others” who support the millions of African grandmothers who have watched their own children die of AIDS, and are now raising their grandchildren, many of whom are also infected.
On June 12, Grandmother groups across Canada, including Kitchener-Waterloo’s Omas Siskona (grandmothers together) and Mama KubWas, will “Stride to Turn the Tide” on HIV/AIDS in Africa. By walking, Canadian grandmothers will show solidarity with African grandmothers and raise money and awareness of their situation.
Three generations of my family will walk, and we will savour the opportunity to spend part of the day outside, together. We’ll wear our hats and sunscreen, and will worry about little else but arriving on time to a minor sporting activity later in the day.
When African grandmothers walk, it is out of the necessity to find food, water and firewood so that their families can survive. For them, walking is work, not pleasure or exercise.
But, regardless of an unfathomable discrepancy in resources, there are ways in which African grandmothers are absolutely the same as Canadian grandmothers: both are fiercely committed to doing what’s best for their grandchildren.
Both also know that in order to Turn the Tide of the HIV/AIDS pandemic in Africa, affordable antiretroviral drugs and free education for their grandchildren are needed to help break the cycle of poverty.
The walk on June 12 will also serve as a reminder of Canada’s humanitarian promise to provide affordable, generic life-saving drugs under legislation known as Canada’s Access to Medicines Regime (CAMR), which requires the passing of Bill C-393.
As well, the walk will encourage support for Education for All, which states, among other things, that education is a fundamental human right, and a means by which developing countries can achieve sustainable development and stability.
According to Stephen Lewis, the former UN Secretary-General’s Special Envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa, and the inspiration behind the Canadian Grandmothers’ efforts, more than half a million children die of AIDS every year, “simply because the world imposes such an obscene division between rich and poor.”
I find myself struck by these poignant words which are so entirely simple and yet, inconceivably complicated.
And if you’re reading this, as I am while writing it, with a coffee in your hand and your children safe at school, you probably feel very much the same way as I do…lucky.
Walkers are invited to join the Grandmothers on Saturday, June 12 at Waterloo Park Area 1 at 9:30 a.m. Learn more about their campaign and the Stephen Lewis Foundation at www.grandmotherscampaign.org/
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, May 2010.
It seems that my tastes in wine and humour are similar: I enjoy each when mature and complex, but I am not above indulging in the unsophisticated and not entirely savoury. As the mother of a 14 and 11-year old, I occasionally partake in both.
During their early days, the type of humour that my kids engaged in consisted mostly of gut-busting laughter when a cup fell to the floor from a high chair, or a toy was tossed out of the crib.
Later, we endured countless knock knock jokes, non-stop bathroom humour, and many gags during which the parent answers a question, and the child announces, through uncontrollable fits of laughter, “Ha! It’s opposite day!”
As my kids get older, the mingling of their increasingly sophisticated thought processes with good taste has, thankfully, become more deliberate and refined. Unfortunately, though, they don’t always aim to hit the mark, opting instead for a type of humour that might be referred to as comically dysfunctional.
As the butt (haha, I said butt!) of many of their jokes, I am generally a pushover for what they dish out. Apparently, I am also a glutton for punishment, since I really do understand and (somewhat) appreciate the enjoyment the kids get out of pulling one over on the adults.
An example of my 14-year-old son’s current type of comedy is an announcement late on a Sunday night that he has homework. I’ll have been led to believe that he’d either completed said homework, or that he didn’t have any to begin with. Every time – the story always changes, but not the method of torment - he still gets me. As my eyes widen and I begin to carefully choose my words and measure my reaction, his face will slowly begin to crack a sly smile. “Just kidding!”
My daughter also thinks she’s pretty funny…which is actually a question I regularly pose to her. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” In fact, I ask this of both the children, and instead of replying, “Sorry, Mom,” with heads hung in shame, I am subjected to echoing guffaws, peppered by, “That was so funny” and, “You should have seen your face!”
This 11-year-old tyrant has a knack for jumping out from the least expected places, at the least expected times, startling me into emitting high pitched, barely- human noises, accompanied by contorted facial expressions. She lurks, ready to spring and shout, “Boo!” sending my near-resting heart rate skyrocketing. She then gleefully mimics the look on my face and, as I recover and my beats-per-minute resume normal levels, she dashes off to find her father and brother, who give her high fives as she re-enacts her ugly tale.
My son had a new teacher transfer to his class in February, and one evening she called our home, explaining that she wanted to become acquainted with her students’ parents. We briefly discussed how things were going with Nick, and I was aware that he was around the corner, straining to hear what was being said. Although there was nothing incriminating, after I hung up the phone, I told my husband that Nick had been behaving poorly in her class. Playing along, he suggested that, in Grade 8, shouldn’t a student know better, and if not, maybe this student shouldn’t be allowed to play in the upcoming hockey tournament.
I dramatically swung around to where Nick sat, stunned…and I flashed him my biggest, brightest smile.
We all laughed, and I savoured the sweet, smooth taste of victory…not at all upset that it was lacking maturity.
It seems that my tastes in wine and humour are similar: I enjoy each when mature and complex, but I am not above indulging in the unsophisticated and not entirely savoury. As the mother of a 14 and 11-year old, I occasionally partake in both.
During their early days, the type of humour that my kids engaged in consisted mostly of gut-busting laughter when a cup fell to the floor from a high chair, or a toy was tossed out of the crib.
Later, we endured countless knock knock jokes, non-stop bathroom humour, and many gags during which the parent answers a question, and the child announces, through uncontrollable fits of laughter, “Ha! It’s opposite day!”
As my kids get older, the mingling of their increasingly sophisticated thought processes with good taste has, thankfully, become more deliberate and refined. Unfortunately, though, they don’t always aim to hit the mark, opting instead for a type of humour that might be referred to as comically dysfunctional.
As the butt (haha, I said butt!) of many of their jokes, I am generally a pushover for what they dish out. Apparently, I am also a glutton for punishment, since I really do understand and (somewhat) appreciate the enjoyment the kids get out of pulling one over on the adults.
An example of my 14-year-old son’s current type of comedy is an announcement late on a Sunday night that he has homework. I’ll have been led to believe that he’d either completed said homework, or that he didn’t have any to begin with. Every time – the story always changes, but not the method of torment - he still gets me. As my eyes widen and I begin to carefully choose my words and measure my reaction, his face will slowly begin to crack a sly smile. “Just kidding!”
My daughter also thinks she’s pretty funny…which is actually a question I regularly pose to her. “You think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?” In fact, I ask this of both the children, and instead of replying, “Sorry, Mom,” with heads hung in shame, I am subjected to echoing guffaws, peppered by, “That was so funny” and, “You should have seen your face!”
This 11-year-old tyrant has a knack for jumping out from the least expected places, at the least expected times, startling me into emitting high pitched, barely- human noises, accompanied by contorted facial expressions. She lurks, ready to spring and shout, “Boo!” sending my near-resting heart rate skyrocketing. She then gleefully mimics the look on my face and, as I recover and my beats-per-minute resume normal levels, she dashes off to find her father and brother, who give her high fives as she re-enacts her ugly tale.
My son had a new teacher transfer to his class in February, and one evening she called our home, explaining that she wanted to become acquainted with her students’ parents. We briefly discussed how things were going with Nick, and I was aware that he was around the corner, straining to hear what was being said. Although there was nothing incriminating, after I hung up the phone, I told my husband that Nick had been behaving poorly in her class. Playing along, he suggested that, in Grade 8, shouldn’t a student know better, and if not, maybe this student shouldn’t be allowed to play in the upcoming hockey tournament.
I dramatically swung around to where Nick sat, stunned…and I flashed him my biggest, brightest smile.
We all laughed, and I savoured the sweet, smooth taste of victory…not at all upset that it was lacking maturity.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Life...especially when creatively documented...is good!
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, May 2010.
Until a recent Sunday afternoon, my idea of preserving and documenting our family history involved barely lifting the lid of a Rubbermaid container, stuffing memorabilia into it, and quickly pushing it back onto a shelf in the basement. This approach ensured that I could quickly forget how overstuffed, under-organized and ineffective this method was.
For a number of reasons - among them the fact that, when placed atop the coffee table for casual perusal, this bin may not enhance the décor in our family room – I was realizing the best solution to manage our overflowing container would be to create a family scrap book.
Except for the scribbled words, “kids’ keepers,” the outside of the bin is entirely nondescript, but its contents, once considered merely semi-precious nuggets, are now emerging, for scrapbooking purposes, as absolute gold. I was thrilled to uncover forgotten items like a piece of fabric from curtains my mom made for my son’s room…this little gem provides memories of a kid’s first room, AND a sample of a grandparent’s handiwork.
It appeared that my hoarding tendencies were actually paying off. Apparently, the desire to scrapbook (Is that really a verb?) had been dormant in the back of my mind, waiting to spring forth and create beautifully embellished pages with snippets that accentuate the colours of my children’s eyes. OK…maybe not quite. I’m not artistic, but I am smart enough to enlist the help of my 11-year-old daughter whose involvement will ensure that the calibre of aesthetic creativity increases. Significantly.
Thinking that we would just spend an hour or so in the initial planning stages, I decided not to bring the entire bin up from the basement. I ran up and down the stairs, each time producing, to my daughter’s delight, more bits and pieces from my two kids’ babyhood and beyond. But her delight soon changed to bemusement and then, outright fear. My demeanour had undergone a major shift; I was no longer offering jovial explanations of items, but was obsessively gathering, sorting and muttering organizational strategies under my breath.
My neurosis, as it always does in situations like this, began to surface. What’s the best possible way to organize all of this? By year? By child? Oh my goodness, could it actually be by activity? I was tormented by countless questions, because - and this something that my husband is always quick to point out about me - nothing is ever simple.
The family room looked like a scrapbooking store…if it happened to be located in the Disaster District.
I suppose though, if a store had a table scattered with greeting cards and newspaper clippings, and a floor covered with piles of loose photos and albums, ultrasound pictures, tiny first bathing suits, and various other items reminiscent of the lives of two children, then yes, it looked quite like a scrapbooking store. But I suspect that a store would have some semblance of order…which although my goal, was so very far from my reality.
And eventually, reality interfered. My husband was otherwise occupied (taxes, he said, but I know he was just avoiding me…imagine!) and somebody in the family with a drivers’ licence had to get groceries. My obsession loosened its grip as I realized that feeding my family in the near future was more important than documenting our past.
It has become obvious that creating scrapbooks, 14 and 11 years later, isn’t easy…or particularly smart. But luckily (and astonishingly), we produced a craft-happy child who recognizes her mother’s shortcomings, and is also old enough to pick up the slack. Life (especially when nicely documented) is good!
Until a recent Sunday afternoon, my idea of preserving and documenting our family history involved barely lifting the lid of a Rubbermaid container, stuffing memorabilia into it, and quickly pushing it back onto a shelf in the basement. This approach ensured that I could quickly forget how overstuffed, under-organized and ineffective this method was.
For a number of reasons - among them the fact that, when placed atop the coffee table for casual perusal, this bin may not enhance the décor in our family room – I was realizing the best solution to manage our overflowing container would be to create a family scrap book.
Except for the scribbled words, “kids’ keepers,” the outside of the bin is entirely nondescript, but its contents, once considered merely semi-precious nuggets, are now emerging, for scrapbooking purposes, as absolute gold. I was thrilled to uncover forgotten items like a piece of fabric from curtains my mom made for my son’s room…this little gem provides memories of a kid’s first room, AND a sample of a grandparent’s handiwork.
It appeared that my hoarding tendencies were actually paying off. Apparently, the desire to scrapbook (Is that really a verb?) had been dormant in the back of my mind, waiting to spring forth and create beautifully embellished pages with snippets that accentuate the colours of my children’s eyes. OK…maybe not quite. I’m not artistic, but I am smart enough to enlist the help of my 11-year-old daughter whose involvement will ensure that the calibre of aesthetic creativity increases. Significantly.
Thinking that we would just spend an hour or so in the initial planning stages, I decided not to bring the entire bin up from the basement. I ran up and down the stairs, each time producing, to my daughter’s delight, more bits and pieces from my two kids’ babyhood and beyond. But her delight soon changed to bemusement and then, outright fear. My demeanour had undergone a major shift; I was no longer offering jovial explanations of items, but was obsessively gathering, sorting and muttering organizational strategies under my breath.
My neurosis, as it always does in situations like this, began to surface. What’s the best possible way to organize all of this? By year? By child? Oh my goodness, could it actually be by activity? I was tormented by countless questions, because - and this something that my husband is always quick to point out about me - nothing is ever simple.
The family room looked like a scrapbooking store…if it happened to be located in the Disaster District.
I suppose though, if a store had a table scattered with greeting cards and newspaper clippings, and a floor covered with piles of loose photos and albums, ultrasound pictures, tiny first bathing suits, and various other items reminiscent of the lives of two children, then yes, it looked quite like a scrapbooking store. But I suspect that a store would have some semblance of order…which although my goal, was so very far from my reality.
And eventually, reality interfered. My husband was otherwise occupied (taxes, he said, but I know he was just avoiding me…imagine!) and somebody in the family with a drivers’ licence had to get groceries. My obsession loosened its grip as I realized that feeding my family in the near future was more important than documenting our past.
It has become obvious that creating scrapbooks, 14 and 11 years later, isn’t easy…or particularly smart. But luckily (and astonishingly), we produced a craft-happy child who recognizes her mother’s shortcomings, and is also old enough to pick up the slack. Life (especially when nicely documented) is good!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thumbing my Way Through Modern Technology
The tendency to refer to a clumsy person as “all thumbs” has become an irony of our time. It’s as shoe (glove?) that seems to be on the other foot (hand?) as the face of technology continues to shift. Now, mobile communication actually requires an agile and able pair of those very digits once suggestive of physical awkwardness.
It’s no longer enough to have adequate typing skills, with right and left hands tapping alongside one another, giving barely more thought to where each finger falls than we give our mother tongue when speaking.
It is now proficiency in “thumb typing” that is required for the palm-of-hand communication process involved in texting on a cell phone, or emailing on a smart phone. Whether it’s single-thumb typing, or double opposable, it’s nearly impossible without a moderately dexterous pair.
After years of enjoying successful synaptic connections between my 10 typing fingers and my brain, I am dismayed to discover the relationship between my thumbs and my thinker is terribly lacking.
I am determined to persevere until, similar to my 14-year-old and his cohorts, thumb-typing becomes second nature. At present though, each text I compose is slow. Laborious. With… long… pauses… between… each… and… every… character.
As I stare at the keypad with alternating wide and narrowed eyes, my crooked thumb hovers, cramping, waiting to reconcile with my brain which key to hit next.
A friend, who, as a parent of kids older than mine, has been a texting aficionado for awhile, once apologized for using abbreviations in an email, figuring (correctly) that I would find them irritating.
However, since my method of texting requires the intense and lengthy consideration of each and every letter before applying the right amount of pressure, the right amount of times, I now see the appeal and have come to embrace the practice.
I am no longer ashamed to use, abuse, and even cre8 abbreviations when texting.
And texting, in general, is easier than calling my son. I can thumb type “dnr, hm now, pls” rather than calling and asking where he is and what he’s doing - that inquisition can wait until he arrives home. Texting also leaves him little opportunity to ask what’s for dinner, didn’t we just have that, and can’t we have something good for a change? In both cases, words best spoken face to face.
Sometimes I wonder if kids these days will learn to type properly, especially since some of them might begin their wired-in experience with thumb typing.
I have vivid memories of Grade 9 typing class with a teacher who was an awkward, timid man otherwise, but when setting his class to work on unmarked typewriter keys, excitedly sprang to life. He gleefully sang each letter and number for the class to type, and became especially melodic (and somewhat contorted) when we were to tap the “space” bar.
There is no question how distressed he would be about the emergence of thumb typing. Although I once worried about my kids developing poor typing habits, now that I’ve given it more thought - and publicly admitted to using abbreviations in texts - I’m not sure what other “bad” typing habits exist. I suspect my Grade 9 typing teacher would bg 2 dfr.
I was recently able to “flext my messaging muscles” when a friend’s husband sent me a text, pleading, “Please teach my wife how to text!” He knew she and I were together, and was not surprised when she did not reply to his message.
What a great feeling of pride I felt coursing through my…thumbs!
...and here for some history about my technical inabilities in Techno Gender-ational Gap
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Putting off until tomorrow...
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record on Tuesday, March 31, 2010.
Even though I did my best to introduce my kids to the benefits of tackling and completing tasks early, it’s a habit we continue to avoid establishing and maintaining.
My husband and I refer to our 14 and 11-year-old kids as “master procrastinators” when they display a knack for neglecting inevitable tasks that are often interpreted as way less important than…well, way less important than just about anything else.
But, like anything else, before attempting to solve the problem, we first need to understand what the problem actually is, and in this case, the consequences, real or perceived, of plummeting into the deep dark abyss of lifelong procrastination.
If you live in the same house but belong to a different generation, there may exist a disparity in perception of the importance of jobs and responsibilities. Though, occasionally – in a somewhat distorted way – the older and younger among us may actually perceive the importance as similar. This is the case when my kids practice, with remarkable skill and acuity, the fine art of “positive procrastination.”
When exercising positive procrastination, the kids’ creativity and resourcefulness often render me silent, which is different than exasperated and vocal…which I usually become when “in a minute” or “just a sec” are offered instead of compliance when I suggest a change of activity while they watch TV or play a video game.
As an enthusiastic and committed piano student, my 11-year-old daughter never has to be urged, cajoled or otherwise convinced to sit down and practice. She
loves to play, and I am conscious of not suggesting she move on to something else while she plays. I don’t think she’s entirely aware how this works in her favour, especially when it’s past her bed time and she is overcome by the creative urge to compose what is certain to be the modern day answer to Mozart’s 5th…only longer.
With household chores and responsibilities looming, my 14-year-old son has been known to exhibit a keener-than-usual interest in training and playing with the dog. Whether it’s a cool new trick and the dog’s on a roll, or it’s a game of fetch outside, his enthusiasm to spend time with his new best friend is palpable.
But really, isn’t anything delectable compared to the gruelling activity that is being avoided?
…which brings me to another point. Most adults I know, when choosing to do an activity that is enjoyable, are neglecting something else. Even though a task may not require urgent attention, it’s always there, taunting us in the background.
So, is it really procrastinating when you simply don’t have time to deal with that which seems un-doable, unappealing, or otherwise unworthy, or does it always suggest something favourable? Because when I “choose” to spend time dusting the furniture, in favour of say, vacuuming the floor, I fail to see where the illicit pleasure comes from!
Of course, some people produce their best work when under pressure with an imminent deadline, and thrive on, what others may consider a crushing sense of debilitating doom. Maybe it requires time spent in adulthood to realize the benefits of, and to learn to avoid experiencing this sense of doom.
For now, what childhood has taught my kids (among other things, I hope!) is that there is one positive procrastination technique that enables them to get just about anything past me. When they actually get along, and settle in to play a game or do an activity together, enjoying each other’s company, I won’t interrupt for anything.
Instead, I tell myself they are learning the benefits of not procrastinating getting along together.
Even though I did my best to introduce my kids to the benefits of tackling and completing tasks early, it’s a habit we continue to avoid establishing and maintaining.
My husband and I refer to our 14 and 11-year-old kids as “master procrastinators” when they display a knack for neglecting inevitable tasks that are often interpreted as way less important than…well, way less important than just about anything else.
But, like anything else, before attempting to solve the problem, we first need to understand what the problem actually is, and in this case, the consequences, real or perceived, of plummeting into the deep dark abyss of lifelong procrastination.
If you live in the same house but belong to a different generation, there may exist a disparity in perception of the importance of jobs and responsibilities. Though, occasionally – in a somewhat distorted way – the older and younger among us may actually perceive the importance as similar. This is the case when my kids practice, with remarkable skill and acuity, the fine art of “positive procrastination.”
When exercising positive procrastination, the kids’ creativity and resourcefulness often render me silent, which is different than exasperated and vocal…which I usually become when “in a minute” or “just a sec” are offered instead of compliance when I suggest a change of activity while they watch TV or play a video game.
As an enthusiastic and committed piano student, my 11-year-old daughter never has to be urged, cajoled or otherwise convinced to sit down and practice. She
loves to play, and I am conscious of not suggesting she move on to something else while she plays. I don’t think she’s entirely aware how this works in her favour, especially when it’s past her bed time and she is overcome by the creative urge to compose what is certain to be the modern day answer to Mozart’s 5th…only longer.With household chores and responsibilities looming, my 14-year-old son has been known to exhibit a keener-than-usual interest in training and playing with the dog. Whether it’s a cool new trick and the dog’s on a roll, or it’s a game of fetch outside, his enthusiasm to spend time with his new best friend is palpable.
But really, isn’t anything delectable compared to the gruelling activity that is being avoided?
…which brings me to another point. Most adults I know, when choosing to do an activity that is enjoyable, are neglecting something else. Even though a task may not require urgent attention, it’s always there, taunting us in the background.
So, is it really procrastinating when you simply don’t have time to deal with that which seems un-doable, unappealing, or otherwise unworthy, or does it always suggest something favourable? Because when I “choose” to spend time dusting the furniture, in favour of say, vacuuming the floor, I fail to see where the illicit pleasure comes from!
Of course, some people produce their best work when under pressure with an imminent deadline, and thrive on, what others may consider a crushing sense of debilitating doom. Maybe it requires time spent in adulthood to realize the benefits of, and to learn to avoid experiencing this sense of doom.
For now, what childhood has taught my kids (among other things, I hope!) is that there is one positive procrastination technique that enables them to get just about anything past me. When they actually get along, and settle in to play a game or do an activity together, enjoying each other’s company, I won’t interrupt for anything.
Instead, I tell myself they are learning the benefits of not procrastinating getting along together.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
14...and counting
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, March 16, 2010.
In the past two months, my family has celebrated two birthdays. Our son turned 14, and our dog turned two.
Dog owners seem to have a tendency to translate the number of dog years into people years, as naturally and easily as they might convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, or kilometers to miles.
I don’t generally use any of these conversions, but recently when employing the
“dog years X 7 = people years,” calculation, I came to an interesting and amusing realization: my son and my dog are the same age!
There are numerous canine quips and expressions that fly around our household, many of which are also applicable to people, and in our case, to the companions that share the same age.
For example:
Were you born in a barn?
In fact, yes, our Australian Shepherd, Dingo was born in a barn. Nick the boy was born in a hospital under sterile conditions, though he now inhabits a room that sometimes resembles what the typical parent might refer to as a “pig sty.” Other offenses that lead to this rhetorical question
include: doors left open, failure to remove shoes in the house, dishes not cleared…
In the past two months, my family has celebrated two birthdays. Our son turned 14, and our dog turned two.
Dog owners seem to have a tendency to translate the number of dog years into people years, as naturally and easily as they might convert Celsius to Fahrenheit, or kilometers to miles.
I don’t generally use any of these conversions, but recently when employing the
“dog years X 7 = people years,” calculation, I came to an interesting and amusing realization: my son and my dog are the same age!
There are numerous canine quips and expressions that fly around our household, many of which are also applicable to people, and in our case, to the companions that share the same age.
For example:
Were you born in a barn?
In fact, yes, our Australian Shepherd, Dingo was born in a barn. Nick the boy was born in a hospital under sterile conditions, though he now inhabits a room that sometimes resembles what the typical parent might refer to as a “pig sty.” Other offenses that lead to this rhetorical question
include: doors left open, failure to remove shoes in the house, dishes not cleared…A dog’s breakfast
With a mouthful of metal straightening his teeth, our son threatens to flash the macerated dinner debris coating his braces that looks like “a dog’s breakfast.” …except that Dingo’s food isn’t really so bad, and her breakfast can sit for hours and not change form, or generate bacteria. Not the case with Nick’s teeth.
Dropped the ball
Although more unbelievable with one than the other, both dog and boy actually throw the ball more than they drop it. When Dingo wants to play, she winds up with what can only be referred to as her “throwing neck,” lets the ball fly, and then looks up, urging us to take our turn.
Having a ball
Nick has earned the name “Party Boy” as he is always organizing a road hockey game, sleepover, bike riding outing or a gathering with neighbourhood families. Dingo simply has a ball…with a hole from which treats drop when rolled just so. Manipulating this toy, I believe, is how she learned to “throw.”
Throw me a bone
I am certain this constantly goes through Dingo’s mind when she knows she has done a good job listening and she waits patiently for a treat. I too, wait patiently for any small nugget of information from my human teenager, especially when I’m really digging deep for dirt, with intrusive questions like, “How was your day?”
Dog and pony show
The dog will frantically try to impress me if the above-mentioned bone is not thrown quickly enough. In a frenzy, she’ll speak-liedown-rollover-sitpretty, and if that still does not produce an airborne crunchy cookie, she’ll walk over and head-butt my knee. Nick’s routine is comprised of strategic jokes and anecdotes, surrounded by seemingly well-rehearsed reasons about why he didn’t get his school assignment done sooner…though he hasn’t yet discovered, “the dog ate my homework.”
Get your paws off!
Dog: paws off the furniture, the guests, the freshly laundered pants.
Boy: my wallet, your sister’s dessert, your dad’s car keys (OK, so I’m just practicing for that one)
Yanking my chain
Though I can’t be sure, I don’t think the dog possesses the intellectual sophistication to employ the humour that my son uses for his good natured teasing. But, at 14, each seem to both require and resent a short leash, which, though tempting to over-use in “training,” will clearly only make my life more difficult in the long run. Sigh…teenagers!
With a mouthful of metal straightening his teeth, our son threatens to flash the macerated dinner debris coating his braces that looks like “a dog’s breakfast.” …except that Dingo’s food isn’t really so bad, and her breakfast can sit for hours and not change form, or generate bacteria. Not the case with Nick’s teeth.
Dropped the ball
Although more unbelievable with one than the other, both dog and boy actually throw the ball more than they drop it. When Dingo wants to play, she winds up with what can only be referred to as her “throwing neck,” lets the ball fly, and then looks up, urging us to take our turn.
Having a ball
Nick has earned the name “Party Boy” as he is always organizing a road hockey game, sleepover, bike riding outing or a gathering with neighbourhood families. Dingo simply has a ball…with a hole from which treats drop when rolled just so. Manipulating this toy, I believe, is how she learned to “throw.”
Throw me a bone
I am certain this constantly goes through Dingo’s mind when she knows she has done a good job listening and she waits patiently for a treat. I too, wait patiently for any small nugget of information from my human teenager, especially when I’m really digging deep for dirt, with intrusive questions like, “How was your day?”
Dog and pony show
The dog will frantically try to impress me if the above-mentioned bone is not thrown quickly enough. In a frenzy, she’ll speak-liedown-rollover-sitpretty, and if that still does not produce an airborne crunchy cookie, she’ll walk over and head-butt my knee. Nick’s routine is comprised of strategic jokes and anecdotes, surrounded by seemingly well-rehearsed reasons about why he didn’t get his school assignment done sooner…though he hasn’t yet discovered, “the dog ate my homework.”
Get your paws off!
Dog: paws off the furniture, the guests, the freshly laundered pants.
Boy: my wallet, your sister’s dessert, your dad’s car keys (OK, so I’m just practicing for that one)
Yanking my chain
Though I can’t be sure, I don’t think the dog possesses the intellectual sophistication to employ the humour that my son uses for his good natured teasing. But, at 14, each seem to both require and resent a short leash, which, though tempting to over-use in “training,” will clearly only make my life more difficult in the long run. Sigh…teenagers!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record on February 16, 2010.
People who are hyper-critical, narrow-minded and over-judgemental really, really drive me crazy. As I sat watching the Grammy awards a few weeks ago, I barely recognized myself, brow furrowed and lip curled, hurling criticisms and insults at the TV.
I don’t usually watch awards shows partly because most of whom I’m interested in seeing aren’t usually included. But I thought I had heard that my all-time favourite artist would be performing and announced my plan to watch, much to the amusement of my husband and kids.
Soon after the show began, my armchair became a soapbox from which I heckled and disparaged.
I had been looking forward to Neil Young, but instead, fell victim to an assault on my senses by… Lady Gaga. In an understatement of unbelievably huge proportion, it could be suggested that these two performers’ styles are different. Although, I’m not sure Neil Young even has a style….which is part of what makes him great. His song writing, singing and guitar playing lack nothing, and leave his audience wanting more of the same, but not more theatrics.
I have seen the odd (yes, pun intended) picture of Lady Gaga and was still taken aback by what she was wearing and her strange performance. (As a talented piano player and singer, she did, however, redeem herself somewhat during her duet with Elton John.)
My 14-year-old son had joined me to watch and I suspected he would be as shocked as I was by this performance. Attempting to gauge his reaction, I nonchalantly remarked that the peculiar design of her costume made her look like a Jetson. Judging by his non-reaction, my comparison went over like a rock at Fred Flintstone’s place of employment, Mr. Slate’s quarry.
Next, a singer named Pink wowed the audience as she was dunked into what I assume was a pool of water, emerged soaking wet and was then suspended, spinning above the stage. It did look kind of cool – for a circus performance. But as the speed with which she spun increased, and the water splattered from her, I thought of the centrifugal force of my salad spinner. That, and how she could possibly keep her voice steady and not throw up.
Both these women have amazing voices, and I was puzzled about why, as “singers,” that didn’t seem to be enough.
It became a bit clearer when my thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of my son’s cell phone and he began a text-conversation.
I think it’s possible that I was downright over-stimulated by the performances at the Grammy awards. Like a baby with too much going on, I became cranky and irritable. My son, equipped with iPod, cell phone and computer rarely out of reach, was not fazed at all.
Perhaps my middle age brain, having not developed with constant connections to these sources of texting, surfing and chatting, simply does not allow all of those simultaneous stimuli to register. I do, however, take pride in my reasonably proficient multi- tasking skills; I can watch TV, fold laundry and apparently, hurl insults at the TV.
A friend once gently suggested that it might be time to expand my musical tastes, given that my iPod is filled with much of the same music my cassette player screeched out 20 years ago. I briefly thought that there might be some value in those words. Then I remembered that I’ve also been married to the same man for 20 years, and nobody seems to think that’s a bad thing. After watching the Grammies, I know, without a doubt, I’ll stick with both!
People who are hyper-critical, narrow-minded and over-judgemental really, really drive me crazy. As I sat watching the Grammy awards a few weeks ago, I barely recognized myself, brow furrowed and lip curled, hurling criticisms and insults at the TV.
I don’t usually watch awards shows partly because most of whom I’m interested in seeing aren’t usually included. But I thought I had heard that my all-time favourite artist would be performing and announced my plan to watch, much to the amusement of my husband and kids.
Soon after the show began, my armchair became a soapbox from which I heckled and disparaged.
I had been looking forward to Neil Young, but instead, fell victim to an assault on my senses by… Lady Gaga. In an understatement of unbelievably huge proportion, it could be suggested that these two performers’ styles are different. Although, I’m not sure Neil Young even has a style….which is part of what makes him great. His song writing, singing and guitar playing lack nothing, and leave his audience wanting more of the same, but not more theatrics.
I have seen the odd (yes, pun intended) picture of Lady Gaga and was still taken aback by what she was wearing and her strange performance. (As a talented piano player and singer, she did, however, redeem herself somewhat during her duet with Elton John.)
My 14-year-old son had joined me to watch and I suspected he would be as shocked as I was by this performance. Attempting to gauge his reaction, I nonchalantly remarked that the peculiar design of her costume made her look like a Jetson. Judging by his non-reaction, my comparison went over like a rock at Fred Flintstone’s place of employment, Mr. Slate’s quarry.
Next, a singer named Pink wowed the audience as she was dunked into what I assume was a pool of water, emerged soaking wet and was then suspended, spinning above the stage. It did look kind of cool – for a circus performance. But as the speed with which she spun increased, and the water splattered from her, I thought of the centrifugal force of my salad spinner. That, and how she could possibly keep her voice steady and not throw up.
Both these women have amazing voices, and I was puzzled about why, as “singers,” that didn’t seem to be enough.
It became a bit clearer when my thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of my son’s cell phone and he began a text-conversation.
I think it’s possible that I was downright over-stimulated by the performances at the Grammy awards. Like a baby with too much going on, I became cranky and irritable. My son, equipped with iPod, cell phone and computer rarely out of reach, was not fazed at all.
Perhaps my middle age brain, having not developed with constant connections to these sources of texting, surfing and chatting, simply does not allow all of those simultaneous stimuli to register. I do, however, take pride in my reasonably proficient multi- tasking skills; I can watch TV, fold laundry and apparently, hurl insults at the TV.
A friend once gently suggested that it might be time to expand my musical tastes, given that my iPod is filled with much of the same music my cassette player screeched out 20 years ago. I briefly thought that there might be some value in those words. Then I remembered that I’ve also been married to the same man for 20 years, and nobody seems to think that’s a bad thing. After watching the Grammies, I know, without a doubt, I’ll stick with both!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
originally published in the Waterloo Region Record, February 2010.
I have become aware of a cruel irony especially apparent at this time of year, as many of us recognize the need to engage in more, or fewer activities that affect our health. Although I hesitate to call mine a resolution, I am trying to incorporate more exercise into my schedule because, even though it sounds good, I don’t believe that “running around” is providing me with the health benefits I should be considering at this age. The irony, of course, is that when I was younger, I needed less exercise and had time for more, and now that I am older and requiring more, I have much less time.
I have begun attending a Zumba class. If you’ve never head of it, I’m not able to tell you much, since – and this is why I don’t call such plans resolutions - I have only been twice. From what I can tell, the instructor uses simple dance steps to provide a cardio and core workout. And just as I have great difficulty actually getting to the classes, once there, the degree of difficulty in performing said “simple” dance moves does not decrease.
Both classes I attended with a friend who is a certified fitness instructor, and as the first began, I was struck by an obvious realization: if I didn’t want to look completely ridiculous, it was probably a bad idea to take a spot beside somebody who receives actual training in, and has been instructing similar classes for more than a decade.
Fortunately, I consider my heart health more important than the risk of looking like an idiot, and thanks to my 14 and 10 year old kids, I have become really quite good at laughing at myself. The manner in which I run - or throw, catch or do anything else that requires coordination - are all great sources of entertainment for my kids. I can’t say I ever actually looked good participating in these activities but I am pretty sure that such manoeuvring of my younger self would not have caused quite the hilarity that it does now.
As the music began, my friend, who knows me well, offered some advice. “If you can’t get the steps,” she began, “just shake it.” I had forgotten about her gruelling enthusiasm for fitness activities, and her ability to get the absolute most out of every move…and how I used to curse both from the back of the class when I attended hers.
As I considered her words, I could conclude nothing else but the only time the words “Just shake it” would be worthwhile advice is if I were standing behind a well-stocked bar preparing a martini. But on a gym floor, I thought it no coincidence that her suggestion of “shake” and my reality of “stiff”, would actually combine nicely. Surely, a drink mixed with those two descriptions would render me…umm, much better able to keep in step!
Another problem this type of class exemplifies is that my limbs don’t always perform the way evolution intended. The swinging of my arms does not seem to naturally match (or, oppose?) my steps. When I actually have to think about and plan for this to happen, I have serious concerns that my issue goes much deeper than lack of coordination.
There is, however, one instruction we are given, that seems to be the only action at which I excel, and can achieve without any trouble at all. It’s intended to be a reminder of sorts, but to me, it’s a source of pride that rests well within my realm of ability.
Breath!
I have become aware of a cruel irony especially apparent at this time of year, as many of us recognize the need to engage in more, or fewer activities that affect our health. Although I hesitate to call mine a resolution, I am trying to incorporate more exercise into my schedule because, even though it sounds good, I don’t believe that “running around” is providing me with the health benefits I should be considering at this age. The irony, of course, is that when I was younger, I needed less exercise and had time for more, and now that I am older and requiring more, I have much less time.
I have begun attending a Zumba class. If you’ve never head of it, I’m not able to tell you much, since – and this is why I don’t call such plans resolutions - I have only been twice. From what I can tell, the instructor uses simple dance steps to provide a cardio and core workout. And just as I have great difficulty actually getting to the classes, once there, the degree of difficulty in performing said “simple” dance moves does not decrease.
Both classes I attended with a friend who is a certified fitness instructor, and as the first began, I was struck by an obvious realization: if I didn’t want to look completely ridiculous, it was probably a bad idea to take a spot beside somebody who receives actual training in, and has been instructing similar classes for more than a decade.
Fortunately, I consider my heart health more important than the risk of looking like an idiot, and thanks to my 14 and 10 year old kids, I have become really quite good at laughing at myself. The manner in which I run - or throw, catch or do anything else that requires coordination - are all great sources of entertainment for my kids. I can’t say I ever actually looked good participating in these activities but I am pretty sure that such manoeuvring of my younger self would not have caused quite the hilarity that it does now.
As the music began, my friend, who knows me well, offered some advice. “If you can’t get the steps,” she began, “just shake it.” I had forgotten about her gruelling enthusiasm for fitness activities, and her ability to get the absolute most out of every move…and how I used to curse both from the back of the class when I attended hers.
As I considered her words, I could conclude nothing else but the only time the words “Just shake it” would be worthwhile advice is if I were standing behind a well-stocked bar preparing a martini. But on a gym floor, I thought it no coincidence that her suggestion of “shake” and my reality of “stiff”, would actually combine nicely. Surely, a drink mixed with those two descriptions would render me…umm, much better able to keep in step!
Another problem this type of class exemplifies is that my limbs don’t always perform the way evolution intended. The swinging of my arms does not seem to naturally match (or, oppose?) my steps. When I actually have to think about and plan for this to happen, I have serious concerns that my issue goes much deeper than lack of coordination.
There is, however, one instruction we are given, that seems to be the only action at which I excel, and can achieve without any trouble at all. It’s intended to be a reminder of sorts, but to me, it’s a source of pride that rests well within my realm of ability.
Breath!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Meal of Minor Sports
originally printed on January 19 in the Waterloo Region Record
Perhaps you’re familiar, as I am, with the tendency to have had strong opinions about parenting before actually being one. You know, the opinions that prompt verbal expression about those thoughts, only to find yourself later eating those very words? My biggest feast to date includes a healthy helping of minor sports.
Before I had kids, what I did have was all the necessary information to raise them. (Luckily, the aforementioned “meal” has left some room to implant my tongue firmly in my cheek.) I was intensely reluctant to have my unborn offspring participate in minor sports, because of skewed information that convinced me I would be doing them a huge disservice by exposing then to an environment where the norm is swearing, hollering, and ridiculous parents pressuring their kids to win, at all costs.
Now, after gulping those words down with the spray of a sports water bottle, I can say that minor hockey has been an almost entirely wonderful experience for my 13 and 10-year-old-kids.
Before telling you why, I must first say that it is unlikely that either of my kids will make a career of playing hockey. Although some of our four family members take the game more seriously than others, my husband and I embrace the sport for our kids because it works well as a part of their lives…but not their whole lives.
After a couple of mildly injurious sporting mishaps, my daughter had little confidence in her athletic ability, or more specifically, the ability required to escape further bodily harm. Now in her second year of hockey, she is comfortable and confident on the ice and her skills and knowledge of the game have improved immensely.
During their first year, Elena’s house league team did not win a single game, but it was so obviously not about winning for this group of girls who simply enjoyed being part of the team. Laughter, song and cheers often echoed from the change room, before and after games, regardless of the score. They also noticed and commented on the individual progress of their fellow players and marvelled at how much better they all were becoming.
My son’s teams have been different. For the most part, the 13 and 14 year old boys play a game that is faster and more intense. (It’s also safe to say there is no singing in the change room!) Nick indulges his competitive drive and makes good use of an excessive amount of energy. He also loves, and is entirely committed to the sport.
But although his game is different from Elena’s, the younger girls gain no less from the experience. In fact, when it comes to skills that are valuable in real life – team work, fair play, acceptance of different abilities, value of physical activity – both teams benefit equally. Another positive is that both my kids’ teams are comprised of players from different schools and areas. If this was an NHL or Olympic training camp, I understand that the priorities would be different. But it’s not.
As a means to an end, I do feel that skill development is valuable, and, of course, we all want our kids to know the satisfaction of a job well done that a win can provide.
But sometimes that win can be bittersweet, especially at a tournament if it means we have to stick around for another couple of hours to watch yet another game…
I consider myself a dedicated hockey parent, but when I have a house to clean and food to buy for the upcoming week, there is definitely some appeal to a loss!
another hockey column..... and another..... and another, kind of
Perhaps you’re familiar, as I am, with the tendency to have had strong opinions about parenting before actually being one. You know, the opinions that prompt verbal expression about those thoughts, only to find yourself later eating those very words? My biggest feast to date includes a healthy helping of minor sports.
Before I had kids, what I did have was all the necessary information to raise them. (Luckily, the aforementioned “meal” has left some room to implant my tongue firmly in my cheek.) I was intensely reluctant to have my unborn offspring participate in minor sports, because of skewed information that convinced me I would be doing them a huge disservice by exposing then to an environment where the norm is swearing, hollering, and ridiculous parents pressuring their kids to win, at all costs.
Now, after gulping those words down with the spray of a sports water bottle, I can say that minor hockey has been an almost entirely wonderful experience for my 13 and 10-year-old-kids.
Before telling you why, I must first say that it is unlikely that either of my kids will make a career of playing hockey. Although some of our four family members take the game more seriously than others, my husband and I embrace the sport for our kids because it works well as a part of their lives…but not their whole lives.
After a couple of mildly injurious sporting mishaps, my daughter had little confidence in her athletic ability, or more specifically, the ability required to escape further bodily harm. Now in her second year of hockey, she is comfortable and confident on the ice and her skills and knowledge of the game have improved immensely.
During their first year, Elena’s house league team did not win a single game, but it was so obviously not about winning for this group of girls who simply enjoyed being part of the team. Laughter, song and cheers often echoed from the change room, before and after games, regardless of the score. They also noticed and commented on the individual progress of their fellow players and marvelled at how much better they all were becoming.
My son’s teams have been different. For the most part, the 13 and 14 year old boys play a game that is faster and more intense. (It’s also safe to say there is no singing in the change room!) Nick indulges his competitive drive and makes good use of an excessive amount of energy. He also loves, and is entirely committed to the sport.
But although his game is different from Elena’s, the younger girls gain no less from the experience. In fact, when it comes to skills that are valuable in real life – team work, fair play, acceptance of different abilities, value of physical activity – both teams benefit equally. Another positive is that both my kids’ teams are comprised of players from different schools and areas. If this was an NHL or Olympic training camp, I understand that the priorities would be different. But it’s not.
As a means to an end, I do feel that skill development is valuable, and, of course, we all want our kids to know the satisfaction of a job well done that a win can provide.
But sometimes that win can be bittersweet, especially at a tournament if it means we have to stick around for another couple of hours to watch yet another game…
I consider myself a dedicated hockey parent, but when I have a house to clean and food to buy for the upcoming week, there is definitely some appeal to a loss!
another hockey column..... and another..... and another, kind of
Friday, January 8, 2010
Not enough of one, too much of another...
originally printed in the Waterloo Region Record, January 5, 2010.
There’s nothing like the Christmas holiday season to clearly illustrate both what we do not have enough of, and what we have too much of. I couldn’t help but notice during the past couple of weeks, and I suspect it might be same with your family, that what we don’t have enough of, is time…and what we have too much of, is stuff.
As I write, we are in the glorious midst of a much needed break from the regular hustle and bustle of everyday life. While we enjoy our holiday, we are making a concerted effort to spend some family time just the four of us…which sounds ridiculous because, isn’t “family time,” by definition, something that should just naturally fall into place, rather than requiring a shoe horn to fit it in?
During a typical, non-holiday, we seem to run around at almost constant breakneck speed trying to keep all of our responsibilities and activities running smoothly. It’s not unusual for our 13-year-old son to eat dinner and do homework in a moving vehicle in order to maintain a travelling hockey schedule.
During this holiday, all four of us have sat, on numerous occasions, in the same room together for more than 15 minutes. More than once, I found myself wondering, why it is we don’t do this more often? The answer, of course, is obvious: we don’t have the time.
So even though we’re doing our best to avoid the feeling that, at the end of the holiday we’ll need another holiday during which to recover, there is still some obligatory rushing, but it’s “fun rushing,” usually without start times, or deadlines. These events are different, since we rush to them, and then we can slow down and relax once we get there.
Another thing I’ve noticed during this break - as if my housekeeping skills weren’t lacking enough to properly organize the belongings we already had – is that with the onslaught of kids’ clothes, games, activities and gadgets, we are now the dubiously proud owners of even more stuff.
And along with the new stuff comes an increased urgency in my never-ending quest to find a logical system with which to organize. In the interest of honesty, and the hopes that this personal purge will help me feel better, I must admit that my method, “Out of sight, out-of-mind” was recently challenged when I found a partly-organized pile of papers and items belonging to my daughter…from school last June. I was tempted to quickly tuck it back away, but realized (as if I didn’t know this before) that part of the problem in storing new stuff was that I first had to organize old stuff.
Unfortunately, apparently due to my children’s genetic make up, they too are sorely lacking in housekeeping skills, and also have some pack rat in them…so we all regularly succumb to: but what if we want to use it again?
Also obvious during the holidays is the need to consider our financial situation when preparing for the big day, and of course, shopping for the deals afterwards. Similar to Norad’s tracking of Santa’s journey across the world on Christmas Eve, my husband discovered another use for the internet when I was out Christmas shopping and Boxing Week bargain hunting. He could track my journey and see where and when my debit card had been used, and how much… longer I’d be gone. I’m sure he was simply eager to have the whole family home spending time together, rather than continuing to increase the amount of stuff coming into the house.
There’s nothing like the Christmas holiday season to clearly illustrate both what we do not have enough of, and what we have too much of. I couldn’t help but notice during the past couple of weeks, and I suspect it might be same with your family, that what we don’t have enough of, is time…and what we have too much of, is stuff.
As I write, we are in the glorious midst of a much needed break from the regular hustle and bustle of everyday life. While we enjoy our holiday, we are making a concerted effort to spend some family time just the four of us…which sounds ridiculous because, isn’t “family time,” by definition, something that should just naturally fall into place, rather than requiring a shoe horn to fit it in?
During a typical, non-holiday, we seem to run around at almost constant breakneck speed trying to keep all of our responsibilities and activities running smoothly. It’s not unusual for our 13-year-old son to eat dinner and do homework in a moving vehicle in order to maintain a travelling hockey schedule.
During this holiday, all four of us have sat, on numerous occasions, in the same room together for more than 15 minutes. More than once, I found myself wondering, why it is we don’t do this more often? The answer, of course, is obvious: we don’t have the time.
So even though we’re doing our best to avoid the feeling that, at the end of the holiday we’ll need another holiday during which to recover, there is still some obligatory rushing, but it’s “fun rushing,” usually without start times, or deadlines. These events are different, since we rush to them, and then we can slow down and relax once we get there.
Another thing I’ve noticed during this break - as if my housekeeping skills weren’t lacking enough to properly organize the belongings we already had – is that with the onslaught of kids’ clothes, games, activities and gadgets, we are now the dubiously proud owners of even more stuff.
And along with the new stuff comes an increased urgency in my never-ending quest to find a logical system with which to organize. In the interest of honesty, and the hopes that this personal purge will help me feel better, I must admit that my method, “Out of sight, out-of-mind” was recently challenged when I found a partly-organized pile of papers and items belonging to my daughter…from school last June. I was tempted to quickly tuck it back away, but realized (as if I didn’t know this before) that part of the problem in storing new stuff was that I first had to organize old stuff.
Unfortunately, apparently due to my children’s genetic make up, they too are sorely lacking in housekeeping skills, and also have some pack rat in them…so we all regularly succumb to: but what if we want to use it again?
Also obvious during the holidays is the need to consider our financial situation when preparing for the big day, and of course, shopping for the deals afterwards. Similar to Norad’s tracking of Santa’s journey across the world on Christmas Eve, my husband discovered another use for the internet when I was out Christmas shopping and Boxing Week bargain hunting. He could track my journey and see where and when my debit card had been used, and how much… longer I’d be gone. I’m sure he was simply eager to have the whole family home spending time together, rather than continuing to increase the amount of stuff coming into the house.
Thursday, December 24, 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.
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.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
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 “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.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
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!
Monday, October 19, 2009
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.
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.
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