Month: September 2006

Sorry, folks. Nothing going on here today. I’m battling a dragon of a migraine, and there’s not much I can take to quell it, so I’m hiding out under the blankets instead. Do you have that ‘safe’ place, about two-thirds of the way to sleep, where the headache miraculously disappears? That’s where I’ll be floating today. Besides, there is no gift greater than sleep at this point in my life. Ah, it’s almost worth the headache and the rolling stomach to contemplate an 8-hour nap!

Talk amongst yourselves, and I’ll try to be back with something a little more energetic later today or tomorrow.

I’m sitting in a waiting room with walls the colour of Pepto-Bismal, waiting for my name to be called. Ironically, or perhaps fittingly but somewhat premature, I’m in the maternity ward of the same hospital where I delivered both Tristan and Simon (because the Fertility Clinic is not set up with an obstetrical ultrasound unit.)

On the way up to the fourth floor in the elevator, I realized that I don’t think I’ve been here since I took Simon home from the hospital two-and-a-half years ago. Walking down the long hallway, my senses were bombarded with the unique sounds and scents of the maternity ward and I am catapulted back in time, remembering the endless hours we paced this hallway, trying to goad a reluctant Simon into making his entrance.

As I passed plastic bassinettes full of fresh babies, my heart leapt to my throat yet again. I don’t think I’ve been able to fully swallow my emotions since I peed on the stick ten days ago. I could have one of those soon, I thought, looking longingly at the flannel-wrapped bundles, and tears sprung to my eyes.

And so I wait for my name to be called, notebook open on my lap to catch errant impressions, but with no semblance of concentration. Finally, it’s my turn. I can’t tell you how many ultrasounds I’ve had in the last five years, but I’m sure it’s more than 25. I start to take off my pants, and she tells me not to bother, as this will be an abdominal ultrasound at least to start. I’m mildly surprised, but pleased at this less intrusive approach. Except she is unable to find anything with an abdominal ultrasound, and the whisper of panic that I’ve been hearing for days in my head crescendos to a roar.

And then, blissfully, it appears on the screen. I tell the technician about the history of twins in my family, and my two preschoolers preschooler and kindergartener at home, and she searches very carefully for any more surprises, but finds none.

One perfectly placed embryo, snuggled in for the long haul. Measuring 6w3d, ahead of its gestational age by a day, with a heartbeat of 105 beats per minute. Everything is exactly as it should be. Everything is perfect.

Due date: May 8, 2007.

There’s so much going on in the world that I could blog about right now, so many things that I would like to blog about right now, that I think my head might burst. Everything from the tragic, incomprehensible shooting in Montreal (again? How could this happen AGAIN?) to Sean Penn getting busted by the smoking police in Toronto, to the amazing things happening 500 kilometers over our heads on the space shuttle Atlantis and Canadian astronaut Steve McLean who was born in the city I live right now. And of course, the unfortunate choice of Lukas Rossi in last night’s Rockstar Supernova… am I the only one with a serious crush on Toby Rand?

But no, there are things in my heart and my head more important than all of these things. Not only do I (finally) have my ultrasound later this afternoon – stay tuned for results! – but I absolutely have to tell you about Tristan’s first day of school.

The good news is, it rained. I didn’t seem like a bad mother who forgot to buy indoor shoes for her son, I seemed like a well-prepared and thoughtful mother who didn’t want her son’s tootsies to be soaked by the torrential rain. (Apparently, a 40% chance of rain means that 40% of the total rainfall for the year will fall on that given day.) And I was only in a little bit of a panic getting out the door and over to the school on time, just enough so that I completely forgot to take the obligatory First Day of School picture.

The other good news is, his fever broke. What fever, you say? He started acting in a way that I can now readily identify as ‘pre-fever’ early the day before, and sure enough, we spent the day feeding him tylenol and ibuprofen to control the fever. (After he had a febrile seizure a couple of years ago, we don’t mess around with fever!) It never amounted to anything more than a fever and a runny nose, and I used to get sick before every holiday and family special event when I was a child, so I wasn’t overly alarmed. Sure enough, he was bright-eyed and cool by the time we pulled on his rubber boots and headed out the door.

He showed no hesitation whatsoever heading into school. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was practically dancing as we walked through the drizzle toward the school, and I pointed out the crossing guard, the unloading schoolbuses and all the other kids making their way to school with my heart in my throat. How did we get here already? So soon?

He never looked back as I stood leaning in the classroom door, watching him as he went directly to the hook beside his name tag, carefully hanging his coat and hat. It was only when the teacher caught my eye with a meaningful glance that I realized I should probably stop darkening the door and move along. I think I could have lingered all day on the threshold, content to watch from a distance.

When I went to the side door of the school to meet him a quick two and a half hours later, the children were already lining up in the hallway. They keep the side door of the school locked to the outside, and so I (and the ragtag group of other beaming parents lighting up a drizzly day) peered proudly through the window. The teacher finally opened the door and the children tumbled out into waiting arms, suddenly seeming years older than they had been just hours ago.

Again I had forgotten the camera, but at the last minute I realized I had my fancy-ass cell phone in my pocket, so I managed to snap a picture after all. This is in the schoolyard, just before we left the premises.

Tristan occassionally tends toward the stoic, and when I peppered him with questions about his day, he answered my excitement with a casualness bordering on blase.

Did you have fun? Yep.
Was the teacher nice? Yep.
Did you play with the other kids? Uh huh.
What did you do? Oh, you know. A craft. I made a school bus.

A school bus. He made a school bus. My son, the artist.

We had fallen into step beside another mother and her little boy, and Tristan was far more interested in talking to the little boy than to me. After a few steps, the mother and I introduced ourselves and our progeny, and we determined that the boys were in the same class together. We chatted amiably as we all walked through the rain, she and Johnny on their way home and Tristan and I on our way to his daycare provider’s house. As we chatted, the boys lagged behind, caught up in their own rehash of the day’s events. I looked back over my shoulder to see them arm in arm, sharing Tristan’s umbrella.

The only thing I forgot to account for was Simon. Poor Simon – his sibling isn’t even born yet, and already he’s suffering the fate of the middle child. I guess he spent the whole morning wandering disconsolately over to look out the front door at the daycare provider’s house, keeping watch for his absentee brother. When we finally arrived, he was overjoyed, only to melt down spectacularly when he realized I wasn’t there to pick him up but to leave Tristan behind with him. The daycare provider had to peel him off me as I made my own teary get-away into the rainy morning.

Hey, one out of two isn’t bad, right?

I’d like to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming to appeal to your charitable nature. Very dear friends of mine have been working hard to raise funds for their caregiver and friend, Shona. In May of this year, Shona was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer, and following her treatment, she will likely be unable to work for at least a year. My friends are doing what they can to help out by raising funds and raising awareness, and telling you about it seemed like the very least I could do.

Event 1 – Garage Sale

When: Saturday, September 16th from 7:30 a.m. – 1:00 p.m.

Where: 26-28 Jackman Terrace in Kanata (close to the Kanata Leisure Centre)

“Everyone is invited to drop by – there’ll be coffee and goodies, lots of items for purchase, and a small raffle for a $25 gift certificate at Tommy’s Restaurant, a Hershey’s Chocolate Shoppe gift basket, and a one-hour massage with Bruce Ford at Absolute Massage Therapy.”

Event 2 – CIBC Run for the Cure

When: Sunday, October 1st at 9:00 a.m.

Where Parliament Hill

Be a part of the team by joining “Shona’s Friends”. Please register at www.cibcrunforthecure.com.

Donations to Account: 003 – 00726 – 5083506 at the RBC Royal Bank, 360 March Road, Kanata, K2K 2T5.

I’ve put the rest of Shona’s story below the fold, but do take a minute to read it and if you can help, please do.

Shona’s Story

My wife and I first met Shona while interviewing potential daycare providers for our daughter, Amelia. We had diligently set up a series of interviews with potential candidates, of which we were about halfway through, and we were already beginning to despair that we would never be comfortable with any choice.

Then we interviewed Shona. We were a little apprehensive from previous interviews; however, Shona’s warmth, experience and chemistry with the children already in her care instantly set us at ease. We sat on her basement floor and talked while the children played around us; Shona stopping once or twice to read a story or redirect play. It was obvious the children adored Shona, but the real surprise was watching Amelia smiling as she joined the others and began to play along.

Over the next six months, we adapted to our new routine and Shona’s home became an extension of our own. Each morning all the children would excitedly accompany Shona to the front door to welcome us with a toy for each of Amelia’s tiny hands. I am still amazed at how the children took care of each other and learned things from one another, thriving in the security and happiness of her home. Shona’s own two children Cassandra, 11, and Gavin, 7, also generously shared their home and mother: eager to lend a helping hand anyway they could. Often we would arrive at the end of the day to find the children all playing together with Cassandra affectionately watching over like a protective mother lion and Gavin entertaining; always willing to perform any stunt to elicit a giggle from his adoring audience.

On May 31st of 2006 Shona was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. The oncologist has told her that it is unlikely she will be able to work for at least a year, possibly longer, while she undergoes an extensive treatment and recovery program. Anyone who knows Shona knows that she is more comfortable giving to others than receiving herself; but, as a self-employed single mother she will be forced to rely heavily on government assistance, private charities and the kindness of friends to help keep her household going.

When I think about the service that Shona has provided to our families and community, working as a caregiver or part time with the Children’s Aid Society, it seems appropriate that the community return the same care to her in her time of need. Without the essential work of people like Shona, the rest of us wouldn’t be able to work and support our own families. This past week, Shona was presented with a quilt put together by her friends as a symbol of our love and support; however, we also realise that Shona needs to focus on getting well without the stress of financial uncertainty. With this in mind the group has planned several events in order to raise money to assist Shona and contribute towards the national community efforts to find a cure for this disease that has affected so many people’s lives.

Where the heck is that piece of paper with the school hours on it. (Rifles through stacks of paperwork on the end table, the kitchen counter and the shelf in the bathroom.) It’s his first day tomorrow, and I can’t remember the official school hours. Do I pick him up tomorrow at 11:15 or 11:30? Or is it 11:45? Where the hell is that paper?

Oh, here it is. Right, 11:25. Got it. Oh wait, what’s this? Oh crap. It’s a checklist of things I’m suppposed to send on the first day. Oh holy god, I completely forgot about this. And the cheque for the activity fees – that slipped my mind entirely. Okay, I can do this stuff. Don’t panic.

Chequebook…. chequebook… ah, leave it for now. What else? Oh right – labels. I ordered the labels for the shoes and the hats and the coat, they’re in here somewhere. (More rifling.) Here they are. I’ll let the iron heat up while I stick these stickers into his shoes.

Oh crap. This says I have to leave a pair of shoes at the school. I read this the other day, but I completely forgot about it. Honest to god, I’m so disorganized sometimes it’s a wonder I even graduated grade school myself. Okay, fair enough, it’s been a tiny bit of a hectic week this week, but really – it’s not like I haven’t seen this day coming!!

Okay, whatever. The boy needs to leave a pair of shoes at school. We only have one pair of shoes. Maybe I can cram his feet into the ones from last year, just for today? Hey, tomorrow there is a 40% chance of rain forecast. What if I send him in his rubber boots, and we’ll leave his regular Scooby runners at the school. That will work. Please god, let it rain tomorrow. Biblical proportions would be nice. Then we’ll just have to remember to run out to WalMart tomorrow so he’s not wearing his sandals for the rest of the week. Good plan. Except – will the kids mock him through high school because he showed up for his first day of kindergarten in rubber boots? That kind of label tends to stick for life… nah, forget it. They’re all four. He’ll be fine.

Next – iron-on labels. I’ve been meaning to get around to this for weeks, why am I doing it after bedtime the night before his first day? WHY? Ouch! Dammit, I just burned my finger trying to hold that tiny little label against the seam of the inside of his Thomas hat. Shake it off, no time for bactine right now. Hmmm, I wonder if maybe I should turn down the iron when I put the label on this polyvinyl coat? Nah, the instructions on the label say to use high heat, and I’m sure this fleece lining will insulate it. Oh CRAP! I just melted fleece AND polyvinyl all over the iron. What the heck am I going to use to iron my work clothes tomorrow? Note to self: add new iron to shopping list when going to WalMart for new shoes tomorrow.

Good enough on the labels. Okay, what’s next on the list? Oh, right. Donated supplies of a large box of ziploc bags, a box of kleenex and a family size hand sanitizer. I bought the ziploc bags last weekend, and the kleenex, but I forgot about the hand sanitizer. Shall I run out to the drugstore now? Should I attach an IOU and send it Tuesday? Am I now labelling my child not only as Rubber Boot Boy, but as the one whose mother isn’t a team player and didn’t send the hand sanitizer on the first day??

Whatever. Next week will have to do. Next? Right, change of clothes to leave at the school in case of accident. At least I thought to organize this on the weekend. Oh oh. It says I’m supposed to put them in a labelled ziploc bag. I only have sandwich-sized ziplocs left. Can I open the box I’m donating to the class and pilfer one? That seems wrong. Oh the angst. I’m the mother who has no taste in footwear, forgets the hand sanitizer AND steals ziploc bags from the children. Next week, I promise I’ll send a whole new unopened box in addition to the box-minus-one that I’m sending tomorrow. And a jumbo hand sanitizer.

And finally, the cheque. The cheque. Oh for the love of god, where is my chequebook? I can’t remember the last time I wrote a cheque for something. Can I send cash? Do they take debit? (sound of massive amounts of paperwork being displaced) Why can I find a chequebook for an account I closed in 1994, but not my current one? That’s just wrong.

Okay, here it is. I’m supposed to send $25. Will they like me better and forgive my first-day transgressions if I add an extra $5? Is it bad to bribe the teacher? Too risky to chance it – the substitute looked pretty straight-laced. Okay, $25 – done. An hour and a half later, we’re finally organized and ready for the first day of school.

Scratch that – Tristan is ready, but I don’t think I’m even close to ready…

There was an interesting article in this weekend’s Citizen, reprinted from Salon, about homework. Specifically, the article is an interview with Nancy Kalish, co-author of the book The Case Against Homework. Kalish argues that “homework is diminishing children’s educational experience, turning kids off learning, putting strains on families, turning students into ‘homework potatoes’ and stunting cognitive and social development.”

Being on the precipice of Tristan’s scholastic career (first day tomorrow!), I find myself increasingly interested in this debate. From what I’ve heard anecdotally, even the junior kindergarten kids have a little bit of homework to do these days. What kind of homework could they possibly have? Play with play dough? Eat paste?

Maybe it’s because I grew up in the touchy-feely 1970s, when self-esteem and a sense of accomplishment were valued more highly than memorizing multiplication tables, or maybe it’s because I was clever enough to skate by without it, but I never had to do much homework. I remember using the family’s ancient (circa 1956) encylopedia to write a paper on Sri Lanka when I was in Grade Four, and I remember studying for exams in high school. But homework was the exception rather than the rule.

So what do you think? Is homework a scourge, or a necessary part of the learning process? One rule of thumb I’ve heard is ten minutes per day per grade, but to be honest, even that seems excessive to me. Maybe 20 minutes per week per grade of school, at least for the first five or six years.

I’ll admit, I don’t really know what I’m talking about on this. I’m long on opinion, short on fact. Aside from any impact on the child, I resent the incursion of yet another battle into our daily lives, and I cringe to think of our daily battle over getting Tristan to sit still through dinner and eat two more bites morphing into a second battle over getting him to do his homework. And there goes our evening, often the only ‘quality’ time we spend together as a family during the week. (Not to mention the fact that, at least at this age, the evenings are so much more mangageable on the days we can get out of the house for a run at the park or a walk around the block or even an hour playing in the driveway, rather than being cooped up in the house.)

On the eve of Tristan’s first day, I won’t get too worked up about this just yet. After all, I’m ridiculously proud and excited to finally be the mother of a school-age child, and I can’t wait to see him take off on this new adventure. But I’m curious as to your opinion on the homework debate. What is it like where you live? Do you think kids are doing too much or too little homework? Do you ‘help’ with homework, or just oversee and enforce? Even if you don’t have schoolage kids yet, feel free to hyperbolize wildly – it certainly hasn’t stopped me.

Today’s assignment? Argue for or against homework cohesively, concisely and competently in the comment box.

I had a huge, labour-intensive post written this morning, and just lost it to the vagries of Blogger’s whims. Now you get the short version. Perhaps that’s better after all.

I’ve been spending a lot of time lately thinking about blogging, blogging for profit, and my own motivations for blogging. It started about a month ago, when I received an invitation to apply to join the BlogHer ad network. While an ever-growing part of me thinks that getting financial recompense for something I already do for love has a certain appeal, the true motivation for me would be the ego-boost of standing shoulder-to-jowl with some bloggers I think are way-wicked cool. And I’ve seen the ads on their blogs, and find them mostly inobtrusive and harmless.

So I’m thinking about applying, which entails them accepting my application. We’re a long ways off yet.

But we were talking about this the other night at the Blogger Meet-Up when a reporter from the Citizen was chatting with us. Her curiousity was piqued by the idea of the moral dilemma of accepting blog ads, and some of the other perks bloggers have started to receive, and she and I did an interview Friday night that should appear in an upcoming edition of the Citizen. Very cool! Because if you know me at all, you know that I value attention and affirmation far more than I value free stuff… and that says a lot!

But I’ve really been thinking about this a lot lately, and then this morning I read an absolutely fascinating post by one of my favourite bloggers on just this subject. Except she’s going in the exact opposite direction, even going so far as to take out her blogroll and (gasp!) sitemeter.

It wasn’t that long ago that I got my first offer of a free book. Since then, I’ve been offered a few more books, which I always accept, and of course, the free smartphone. I’ve also been offered a free personalized children’s book, which I will eventually get around to ordering just because I think it’s a neat concept and don’t mind giving a few inches of space to promote. There’s other stuff I’ve declined, and I’ve been asked to join two other ad networks and turned them down, too. (So you see, I do have some standards – but they’re capricious.)

The more I think about it, though, the more I am leaning towards running small ads here. Really, and I would like your opinions on this, what’s the difference between getting paid for your hard-won traffic and getting paid by a publisher? Why shouldn’t you get paid for something you do for love? I’m not looking for your permission or your absolution, but your honest viewpoint on whether not running ads is morally superior or just foolishly idealistic. Or somewhere in between? What’s the line between accepting free books, and accepting other merchandise, and accepting ad revenues?

What’s your price?

Now that we’ve gotten past the whole Ikea thing, the prize for the “Google that made me laugh out loud” award goes to: “pictures of giant women crushing things“.

The runner-up is “why is my period late?” You’re going to have to pony up a bit more personal information if you want me to answer that question for you.

How do I love thee, Interwebs? Let me count the ways…

It’s late (well, after dark) and I’m beyond tired, but I wanted to tell you a little bit about Tristan’s first-first day (as opposed to his first small-class day, and his first whole-class day) on Wednesday. I’m not sure I have enough brainpower left to create a cohesive narrative arc, so bear with me as we bullet this out.

• Tristan’s actual teacher is on leave until the end of September, so his school career starts with a supply teacher. This doesn’t particularly bother me, except I feel I have to explain to him that these women will not be his regular teachers. It simply complicates everything – because this week’s theme seems to be complication.
• We walk in the door and are greeted with a cheery “Bonjour!” and I freeze like Bambi on the train tracks. “Um, er, allo,” I stumble, “Ici, this is Tristan.” They immediately switch to English, but I later learn that they alternate weeks in English and French, and what they study in one week in English (the family, the parts of the body, etc) they learn the next week in French. This is French week.
• For the first of what I expect will be innumerable times in years to come, I am called “Mrs (Beloved’s Lastname)” instead of Tristan’s hypenated surname or even my own name.
• I am way too big to sit in a kindergarten chair gracefully, especially in low-riding jeans that are a little too tight after a summer of indulgence.
• The kids are to be dropped off precisely between 8:50 and 9:00. This worries the control freak in me who will not be doing the drop-off.
• Tristan is so ready for this. While I talked to one teacher about rules and expectations and the usual paperwork, the other teacher showed him around the classroom, and Tristan took it all in with huge, glowing eyes.
• It was hard not to choke and gulp a little bit when I overheard her telling him “And this is where we pray to Jesus.”
• I am eternally grateful that the train conductor hats were immediately beside the pray-to-Jesus station, and Tristan was distracted enough by them to leave off questioning the prayer station – for now.
• Mommies are not welcome to stay for the first day. (sob!)
• They have a clever idea of a parent-teacher communication folder, which is basically an 9×11 laminated folder that goes back and forth every day with notes back and forth. Unfortunately, Tristan’s TtFTE backpack is too small, and we will have to buy a larger one for school.
• There are two junior kindergarten classes. The school is much larger than I realized. There seems to be at least two classes of each grade, up to Grade 6. For Grade 7, they move to the local high school. Thinking of Tristan going off to high school gives me anxiety pangs already!
• We need to buy new shoes, even though we just bought new shoes. One pair stays at the school as ‘indoor shoes’. We also need to supply a box of kleenex, and a box of large ziploc baggies.
• Each parent is obligated to make a batch of home-made playdough one week of the school year. My week is in February, which gives me lots of time to practice the recipe – thank god. Do you think they’ll notice if I just buy bulk and pass it off as mine? (I can’t take credit for this idea – but can’t remember who did it. Was it Jen?)
• I’m feeling a little left out of the whole school process because Beloved will be dropping Tristan off in the morning, and the daycare provider will be picking him up at 11:30. The teachers won’t know me from Adam. I’m going through working-mother angst all over again.

His first official day (with a small group) is Wednesday – you can expect more hand-wringing and angst within the week!

Sorry, bloggy friends. I owe you two posts, and I don’t have time to give you either one of them just right now.

The first one is all about yesterday’s interview with Tristan’s junior kindergarten teachers, and how well it went and how proud I am and how freaked out I am about the whole “no longer a preschooler” thing.

The second one is about this great Ottawa blogger meet-up I went to last night with Andrea and Kerry and Chantal, and how great it is to see such a strong and diverse blogger community in the city, and how much fun I have every.single.time I get together with Andrea, and how funny Chantal is in real life – even funnier than on her blog.

But all that is for another day – soon, I promise – because since I was out gallavanting last night I didn’t have time to write up the JK post and since I have French class this morning I don’t have time to write up the blogger meet-up post. And if anything else happens to me this week, even as mundane as finding $20 in the pockets of a jacket I haven’t worn for a couple of months, I really think my head might explode. I’m just sayin’…