Real New Year's Day

Ashuelot River in Keene New Hampshire, a photo by Keene and Cheshire County (NH) Historical Photos on Flickr.

Yesterday's retreat from the cottage was bittersweet. As we packed up our belongings and headed home as we always do, it was with the unspoken knowledge that we were embracing a new rhythm.

The thought was confirmed as I slid the car into the driveway and noticed that the roadside maple in my yard had jumped the gun and was already flaming. My lily's had long-since dropped their petals, their stems turned reedy. Not to mention, I have more tomatoes than I know what to do with, peppers begging to be pickled or turned into chili sauce and a bunch of rosemary so massive and fragrant that the squirrels have mistaken it for a tree and play ring around the rosy round it.

But the real ripening in my home is human. My son has outgrown his summer shoes and sleeps like a hibernating bear. He will rue the day each coming morning when I rouse him from bed for school, I suspect. My daughter flits around the house like a drunken butterfly her limbs threatening to overtake even mine in length. Whatever they may feel about returning to school, it causes me to wonder how they - not to mention me - got to be so old.
The feeling was echoed again perfectly as I read my morning newspaper: Labor Day, it proclaimed, has nothing to do with the rhythms of nature, nothing to do with the movement of the sun. It just happens that we pause every year about now and look around us and notice the way the small changes add up. It’s a reminder that we could do this almost any day of the year: declare a holiday, stand back, and consider the ebb and flow of the world we live in.

Labor Day, not New Year’s, is when the new year really commences.

Summer Camp

My sweet-faced daughter is at camp and I miss her. I send her a letter every second day and get none in return. This is the way I like it. Getting letter from your kid at camp is like that day on Survivor near the end where you get a visit from your family: it just makes you realize how bad you miss them. The major difference at our house, however, is that unlike those on Survivor people, the rest of us will not end up stabbing each other in the back the moment our family member has left the island. We just don't roll like that. I guess that means that we aren't ready for prime time. I can live with that.

I do have a ton of time to read, write and spend time with my son who sees my daughter's two weeks at camp as the ultimate vacation. He can sleep in and his life is peaceful, easy and sister-free. When I ask him if he would like me to add a line to the letters I write he usually rolls is eyes until I can see the white parts. Then he tells me to tell her that he got a tattoo. That's usually when I sigh and make something up.

This year, I packed her a book that she loved. It was called, P.S. I Hate it Here. It is a book of letters that kids wrote to their parents while at summer camp. Some are good. Some bad. Most are hilarious.

Here is a sample:

And another....



See what I mean?

Father

He ate the same breakfast every morning: two boiled eggs, two pieces of toast with marmalade and tea with four teaspoons full of sugar. When he got older, he added Bran Flakes to “keep things moving”. He packed his lunch each morning in a metal lunch pail and inside it were almost all of the same items he had for breakfast. The only change was the bread: it was not toasted. He ate his supper at the same time – 4:30 PM – and didn't care if anyone joined him. Prefered it, in fact. He also didn’t care what was on the menu provided that, whatever it was, was served with rice. This he made himself because nobody did it as well. This is the same reason he gave for ironing his own shirts. The dry cleaner botched the job. He used a hanky. He kept it in his left pants pocket and after blowing, meticulously folded the dry part over the wet before putting it back in his pocket. He snickered and shrugged his shoulder when we moaned that this was disgusting yet refused to surrender the practice. He played golf every day after work in the summer, turned on the television and watched sports when the snow started to fly. When spring came  again, he started it all over again. He was a Habs fan. He thought the 1984 Lakers had the first best first line in the history of basketball. He thought Lee Trevino was under-rated and didn’t understand why Jack Nichlaus was “Golf’s Darling”. He screamed so loudly when he saw Joe Theisman’s leg break that the house shook and the neighbors rush over to make sure everything was all right. It took two days for him to stop shaking his head and saying, Now that is disgusting. He called women he liked, “Darling”, men he liked, “Boss”. He loved to tell us what a “handsome son-of-a-bitch” he was and the way he said it lets us know that he still thought he was. He read the Sunday New York Times every week even though the paper didn’t reach town until Tuesday. He clicked his tongue at the headlines when it arrived and referred to the people in it by their first names. Pierre and Margaret are breaking up, for instance. Or, Fidel is having another anti-American rally in Havana. His legs were muscular and attractive in shorts and I secretly hoped that mine were the same. He loved to tell anybody who would listen about the time he got into an elevator in Montreal with Liz Taylor, how her eyes were violet and she wore a pill box hat. She smiled hello and he was instantly struck mute. He could recite most of e.e. cummings by heart and did so when the spirit struck him. He cried when Cher won an Oscar. He's gone but he is everywhere. In my son's quiet gaze. In my daughter's laugh. In the smell of cut grass. In the sound a car makes on gravel. Everywhere. All the time. Here. Now. Always.

The Cost of Safety

If getting the kids out the door on time were an Olympic sport, in our house we would be Lichtenstein: we wouldn't medal. To be fair, we’d be doing fine if we could get it together by 8:15 but, for some odd reason, the wheels seem to mysteriously fall off around this time. Suddenly, I realize that in my pursuit of making myself the perfect cup of tea, I have neglected to make the kids' lunches. Or, it's Track and Field day and my daughter can't find her sun hat. Or, no one brushed their teeth or hair. And why, Universe, when we step outside and realize that it's dropped 10 degrees colder overnight, can we never step back inside the house and instantly find our lucky toque? Suffice it to say, 8:15 to 8:35 a.m. can be the low point of the day. 

Remember those visions you had of yourself while you were pregnant? You know the one: where you're cast as the ideal parent, laughing and smiling and walking off to school, early, with your children leading the way, skipping and holding hands and telling knock-knock jokes? Keep dreaming. 

But even on my most Lichtenstein-y days, I know I have an ace up my sleeve when it comes to getting my kids to school safely and as close to on-time as is humanly possible for me. It's my school crossing guard, Luva. But Luva is more jewel than ace standing at the side of the highway of 7A - rain or shine -  and sparkling through the gloom like a jewel in DayGlo orange. While I'm at home scraping mustard off of my pants,Luva is that parent stand-in I conjured in my pre-natal fantasies. Only she's way, way better, is nicer in the morning and gets to carry a giant stop sign. Plus, as an added bonus, she has the eyes and reflexes of a jungle cat (which are equally effective at spotting speeding cars and light-jumpers-too- busy-putting-on-eye-liner- to-notice-they-are-in-a-school-zone, as they are whining-heel-draggers-who-forgot-to-finish-their-toast), she is fiercely serious about her job and wields her Stop sign more as a calling than a call of duty (which is, how I secretly suspect, she sees her job). If I were a real estate agent trying to sell a house within a five-block radius, I would mention that she comes with the neighborhood. She's that much of a selling point.

Last week, the head of our local school association sent out a mass e-mail SOS. In an effort to cut costs, our township proposed to eliminate Luva's position on the side of the highway, as well those of her fellow guards across from the school and further down the street near a busy thoroughfare. As far as I know, an alternative has not been proposed. 

Look, I appreciate that municipal governments are strapped for cash. And I love saving money as much as the next guy. I do. But isn't it time we had this conversation: how much is a child's life worth to us? I know mine are worth well more than the several thousand per year it takes to man those corners every day. Plus, as long as we're talking math, isn't putting even one child at risk as they cross a busy highway or intersection, just too much? Aren't crossing guards a symbol for community's that claim safety as a top priority? Plus, remind me: didn't I pick up a municipal flyer that claimed that my township was an "active community"?  How can we pay lip service to that when our smallest, most impressionable local citizen aren't safe to walk or cycle to school each morning? 

Several decades ago, a young boy was killed crossing the busy highway Luva so ardently watches over. A crossing guard was added. Several years afterwards, when that was a distant memory, another young child - a girl this time- was killed and a light was added. I know I'm not the only one who sees getting rid of the Luva's of this world as moving backwards. Isn't it time to put our money where our mouth is? Let's leave crossing guards alone.

No. I. Won't.

Seven Mother's Days ago, I got into an awkward.... uhmm...disagreement with my Mother-in-law after a well-meaning comment she made. My daughter was having a meltdown after I refused to bend to her will over ingesting yet another piece of candy or something and she pitched a fit. On Mother's Day. While she screamed bloody murder in a corner and I tried not to drink wine before noon, my mother-in-law turned to me and said, "You know, you don't believe me now, but one day, you're going to miss this." 

Breathe, I told myself. You don't want to end up on the cover of The Sun.

"Maybe," I shot back, "but today is not that day!"

I could tell by the way my husband flinched that I maybe should have kept quiet. But come on! You know that's the sort of comment that could lead to matri-in-law-cide, right?

Unsolicited advice is the scourge of parenthood and, happily, I am not alone in my hatred of it. I had the chance to read an excerpt from the amazing comedian, Jim Gaffigan's new book, Dad is Fat, and aside from having the most perfect title, the section of the book that killed me the most was the passage that dealt with just these sort of "insightful" exchanges (which Gaffigan gets in spades, by the way, having fathered five children. Five!) 

From the moment the baby bump shows, people view it as an open invitation to give unsolicited advice about everything baby-related: "Your wife shouldn't be walking up stairs!" "Looks like your wife is having a boy!" Then with the newborn: "Isn't your baby hot?" "Isn't your baby cold?" Or my favourite regarding a baby in a sling: "Can he breather in there?" No, he can't. And I plan to put you in there next.

Of course, "You're going to miss this!" is not typical advice. It's a confession from these parents with older children that they may not have taken enough time to appreciate the chaos. That's why when people tell me "You're going to miss this!" I always offer to let them take a trip down memory lane and come over and change some of Patrick's diapers at 4:00 AM or tell my three-year-old the same Scooby Doo story for five straight hours.

Brilliant. Where is advice like this when you need it, I ask?

Listen, I know that she meant well. And I assume that she was talking about my kids being young and not the conversation we were presently engaged in (as I wasn't going to miss getting unsolicited parenting advice). And I get it: I will miss them being cute and cuddly and generally sweet in all the things that they do. Hell, I already ready miss how easy it was to buy them clothes without being told that the ones I chose are "a bit lame. No offence, Mom." I suppose it's rather ironic that after all of the toddler meltdowns in the library, the grocery store and various parks throughout the metropolitan Toronto area that, someday, my kids be embarrassed by something as small as my musical choices. (BTW, Michael Jackson is still cool with the kids, right?)

But I will never miss the unsolicited advice. Never. I would rather spend eternity dropping my kid off a block from school without his friends having to see me driving in my pyjamas than have an old lady tell me in the line up at the grocery that my kid is too young to be eating a lollipop.

If lollies are a chocking hazard than fill your cart, lady. Now, that is advice that I can live with.....

How to Get Out of a Ticket: the Laura Way

08_05_17 (134), a photo by Mr Rodriguez; or, Frank on Flickr.

Today, as I made my way home after a successful trip to Costco, I was stopped on the highway by a proud member of out local police force. Here is an actual transcript from that event:

Police Officer (looking very self-satisfied): Well! I've been sitting here all morning waiting for you!

Me (looking even more smug and self satisfied): Well! I got here as fast as I could!

End Scene.

And that, dear friends, is how you get your sorry ass out of a speeding ticket.

Lady Business

A few year ago, there was this great skit on SNL called, Lady Business. The bit, written by Tina Fey and staring the best female cast members of that year (actually, of any year) - Kristen Wiig, Amy Pohler, Maya Rudolph and Rachel Dratch- was a spoof of this Brook Shields vehicle that NBC was pushing heavily in their schedule. The Shields' show claimed to be a sexy, yet celebratory, insider look at women in the business world but was such a ludicrous, one dimensional view of women everywhere that it tanked after only a few episodes. That left it ripe for the picking and the SNL ladies nailed calling it by writing a skit that called it out in a way that only great comedians can do: by reducing it to a line that you can kick like a dead horse. Awesome.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mpZ4Cv7eomc

Of course, ever after every time there was some weirdness that pertained to women, whether positive or negative, I chalked it up to "lady business". My daughter has a disagreement with a friend at school: Lady Business! The old man at Sobey's pats me on the derriere? Lady Business! A friend is sick and tired of doing laundry and shoots it all on the front lawn for her family to do for themselves? Lady Business! 

If you want to see Lady Business at its finest, however, you need to haul your ass over to the comments section of Amazon where a little product called,The Bic Pen for Her, is getting a heavy dose of action Lady Business-style. Have you heard about this product? The re-boot of the Bic Pen only this time, made entirely for Ladies? If it weren't real, it would make me cry. Instead, the snarkiest members of the internet have seized upon it as an opportunity to let the corporate world know how stupid and reductive the've been by bombarding it with sarcastic reviews from women and men alike. The aim, of course, is to undermine what some have called a sexist marketing endeavour and the comments on the most highly trafficked sites are genius. Comedy Gold of the Highest Order, seriously. Here are some examples:

        Finally! For years I've had to rely on pencils, or at worst, a twig and some drops of my feminine blood to write down recipes (the only thing a lady should be writing ever). I had despaired of ever being able to write down said recipes in a permanent matter, though my men-folk assured me that I "shouldn't worry yer pretty little head". But, AT LAST! Bic, the great liberator, has released a womanly pen that my gentle baby hands can use without fear of unlady-like calluses and bruises. Thank you, Bic!" - Breemeup

        "The normal black pen casings are just so hard on the eyes. It was like a breath of fresh air to see lady colored pens. For once, I don't have to grip a giant, man-sized pen just to sign receipts at Saks. And the ink just hits the paper so smoothly, not at all like the rough, gritty man ink in Bic's normal pens. My only complaint is that they are a bit finicky. When I was copying down recipes from my neighbour, it worked just fine, but as soon as I sat down with the bills, nothing. It wouldn't work! But that's okay, my woman brain gets all muddled trying to figure out finances anyway." - Virginia

Rather than piling on either five-star or one-star reviews, the BIC for Her also attracted dire warnings for anyone too manly to hold the pens deemed "essentially for women."

        "I bought this pen (in error, evidently) to write my reports of each day's tree-felling activities in my job as a lumberjack. It is no good. It slips from between my calloused, gnarly fingers like a gossamer thread gently descending to earth between two giant redwood trunks."

Oh, Bic! You've just run into some Lady Business!