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!

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

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.

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…

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!

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!

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!