Because, Gratitude.

Squid.

He never does anything halfway, that kid. He continually surprises us with his ability to live through stupid shit.

The night before this all happened, I was talking with Jason about a friend of ours whose child was having surgery, and said to him, (forgetting that the universe is cruel), something about how grateful I am to have 4 perfectly healthy children.

The universe gave me 14 hours to gloat. Then it plunked bricks of karmic irony upon my stupid head.

The kids were off school the following day and celebrated by spending what would have been math class sitting in the kitchen watching 'Mr. Popper's Penguins', (which has subsequently been banned in our house). Out of the blue, he yelled that his eyes had gone all funny and he couldn't see. Before I got down the hallway, out he came, pinballing off the walls and furniture like some blind little sea creature (say, a squid, for example), and said he had to puke.

I took him into the bathroom, and he stiffened up and proceeded to have a full-blown-full-body-drop-down-onto-the-floor-and-shake seizure. I called 911. I'm smart that way. I pick up on the subtle stuff.

Liz came running downstairs- thank God for her unflappability (is that a word?) and hung onto the poor kid while I talked to the dispatcher.

And thank God for my awesome dayhome clients, all of whom responded to my panicked text with lightning speed- most of their kids were gone before the ambulance even got there, and the rest were gone within the next 15 minutes. I should probably give them a discount for scaring the crap out of their children.

By the time we got to the Children's, Squid's neurological assessment was fine, so they booked him for an EEG in a few days and let us go home.

When we had the EEG done, the tech told us that our family doc would have it within 7-10 days and they would call if there was a problem. So when we didn't hear from them for 2 weeks, we figured things were fine. I called them a few days later, though, and booked an appointment for him to follow up.

So we walk in the day of the appointment, get in right away, and the doctor tells us that the EEG was totally normal (thank God), and just to book him for a physical in the new year, and sends us on our way. As we’re packing up to go, he says ‘Do you want a copy?’ and I, with my constant need to know everything about everything, say yes.

And off we drive to McDonald’s. At the stoplight, I look down at it, cause I'm too lazy to put it in my purse and it's still in my hand, and no word of a lie, the FIRST WORD ON THE PAGE IS ‘abnormal’. And the doctor has had the thing in his possession for 3 weeks.

I thought I was going to have a heart attack. So I pull over into the first parking lot I see, and read the thing, and even to my non-medical eyes, it is VERY CLEARLY not a normal EEG, and says right on it that he needs to be referred to a neurologist.

So I call the doctor, cause I've literally only been gone 5 minutes, and he picks up the phone, and I ask him if he READ the report, and in his important doctor-ey voice says "Of course I did", and I suggested that he may want to reread it. Then there is a giant 5 minute silence (in which I assume he watches his medical career die in front of his very eyes), and he says "Ok- I see that now" (Now???? Fucking liar. That implies you read the thing once already, which we all know you didn't actually do.) "You need to turn around and bring him back in so we can get a referral done and we need to make a plan."

(Note- said plan includes him no longer being our doctor. Nor would I suggest that anyone in the area use Dr. Felicien Mbuyi at the Richmond Road Family Medical Centre for anything that requires his full attention. Like doctoring, or prescribing, or not killing you. His track record is not awesome. If, however, you need someone to do a half-assed job and pay absolutely no attention to detail, then I highly recommend his services.)

I went back to his office, and all he can do is apologize. I left Squid in the waiting room while he set up the referral, and while he’s typing, he’s apologizing, and I refuse to yell till I have the referral in my hands, but if he apologizes again, I may SNAP. He finally hands the thing to me, and everything I hadn't said in the past 15 minutes comes out of my face, and I can hear the front office staff chatting with my son, and their voices are getting louder and louder, in an obvious attempt to cover up the sound of my voice, which is not overly quiet to begin with.

You know how you get mad at someone, and later on, think of something you should have said and regret not thinking it sooner? That didn't happen. It was almost magical, really.

As I started to leave, the nurse and receptionist apologized one more time and my composure flew right out the window. I turned around and yelled “That’s great, thank you, and once I find out whether or not your negligence has harmed my son, maybe I’ll GIVE A FLYING FUCK!” And slammed out the door.

And then had to turn around and open the door for my kid. Who I had left behind in my rage. Not my finest exit.

So we stop at the new doctor’s office that opened up right by us, and I explain to the receptionist, and we have a new family doctor in a matter of minutes. When he came into the room, I handed him the results and he read it, looked at me, read it again, and says “He can’t possibly have looked at this!!" and then he says “You have to pay attention in this job- this is DANGEROUS!!”. And when I asked what he meant by 'dangerous', he says “Well, we aren't worried anymore that there might be something wrong with Squid- there is clearly abnormal electrical activity occurring in his brain, which caused his seizure. There are two possible causes. Our job now is to figure out which one it is. The neurologist is going to do some tests and rule out the possibility of it being a brain tumour. If (If??? What????? IF????????) we rule that out, then we know it's epilepsy."

And that was how we spent Christmas. Praying for epilepsy.

On January 14th, Squid met his new neurologist, and we really liked her. Which is good, cause we'll be seeing more of her.

Anyway- based on an EEG and the neurological assessment, she feels reasonably confident that it’s not a tumour. They’re still doing an MRI just to make sure, but he passed his neurological exam with flying colours. That, combined with the fact that the spikes in his brain are occurring everywhere, rather than being specific to one spot (if they were all at the back of his head, say, or by his one ear), make it very unlikely that a tumour is the cause. It’s far more likely that the epilepsy is not caused by any underlying structural defect, but rather because he just has epilepsy. 

I actually said "Yay! Epilepsy!" Apparently, she hears that a lot. And I then had friends say it to me, which I found EXCEEDINGLY funny when they realized what words they'd just said out loud.

The neurologist thinks what happened when he had his original seizure is that he actually had TWO separate seizures, one right after the other. The first one was something called a focal seizure, when his vision got blurry, he lost his coordination, got all confused, and walked into the wall. This triggered a completely different type of seizure- a tonic-clonic one, which is the one that caused me to call 911.  The Friday just before the neurology appointment, he ‘got dizzy and my eyes got funny and I fell down at school and couldn't get up’, and she was reasonably sure that was a seizure, as well. She thinks he’s probably had a few of them during waking hours the last year or so, but because it just looks like dizziness or not paying attention or clumsiness, (all of which he has a black belt in) we hadn't noticed.

All of a sudden, a bunch of stuff is coming together and making a ton of sense- random pretty bad headaches and sleep problems over the last year, some new and interesting shitty behaviour, and problems focusing at school, which are all are being caused by these seizures. Even as she was telling me this, the kid was leaning on the exam table at 11 am, yawning and falling asleep. It’s almost impossible for him to get a really good, deep, sleep, because he’s seizing. And being sleep deprived can trigger seizures in people with epilepsy. So around and around it went, until it triggered an event that we couldn't possibly misinterpret.

They started him on anti-convulsants right away, and within a very short time, it should help with the seizures (you know- cause we didn't notice the first ones, so I'm SURE we'll notice them stopping), which will in turn help him get a full night’s sleep, which will in turn decrease the chances of him having a seizure. They’ll follow up with an MRI just to confirm that it’s not a tumour, and in 6 months we’ll see the neurologists again and have a repeat EEG to see if the medication is helping- if not, we’ll try a different medication/dosage, etc. 

It seems to be helping so far. He's been on them since the 14th, and he's hopping out of bed in the mornings instead of having to be pried out of it 11 or 15 times in a row. And his headaches are gone, which is awesome. He also cries at the drop of a hat, has totally lost all impulse control, is having some anger issues, and spends 2 hours every afternoon running in circles around the neighbourhood in an attempt to stave off hyperactivity so bad that he describes it as 'like he's at a birthday party and never, ever leaves', but they tell us that these side effects should subside in a few weeks. I hope so. I've kept him home from school till he can regain a bit of control, and to be honest, it's becoming less and less enjoyable as time goes on. One of the really common side effects is exhaustion, which I thought meant we'd be sleeping in for a few weekends in a row, but alas, that was not to be.

The drug he's on is a good one- it won't make him stoned or damage his liver or cause bone loss, like a lot of them do, so we're powering through the initial shock of the side effects in an attempt to keep him on them. The other drugs are scary enough where I'm not convinced they'd be improving the situation at all. Basically, until the uncontrollable rage I keep being warned about causes him to smack Eva in the face with a shovel, TWICE, I'm sticking with it. I'm rapidly becoming an expert in all things epilepsy. My Google medical degree is in the mail as we speak.

At first we were so high on the 'not a tumor' factor that we didn't even care that there was a down side. We've gotten a huge education in the last week and a half, and the realities of the situation are starting to set in, but I refuse to forget to be grateful.

I'm grateful not only that Squiddy's head is not a ticking time bomb, but also for the seizure that alerted us to the problem now, instead of 6 years from now, when he's old enough to drive and maybe had a seizure and killed himself or someone else.

I am grateful that we have been reminded to appreciate every split second with our kids. Even the ones who are currently pissing me off. Just in case their brains explode.

I am grateful for the people with whom we surround ourselves. Who listened to me sobbing in shock on the phone and talked me off my ledge; who, rather than tell us not to be afraid, were scared with us and quietly prayed we didn't have to be; who listened to all the what-ifs and then went ahead and stayed totally optimistic in spite of them; or who insisted on Christmas manis and pedis and drinks even when it was quite literally the last thing in the world I wanted to do.

And things are looking a whole lot more wonderful than they did a month ago.

Because, gratitude.

A Cautionary Message

5 FOODS YOU SHOULD NEVER ALLOW IN YOUR KITCHEN!

19 'FOODS' THAT AREN'T FOODS AT ALL!!!

24 FOODS YOU SHOULD AVOID AT ALL COSTS!!!!!

50 HOLIDAY 'FOODS' THAT MIGHT JUST RUIN YOUR CHRISTMAS FOREVER!!!!!!!

I see stuff like this all the time on social media. I'm never entirely sure what to make of it.

The point I'm trying to make is that if we all just use a little bit of common sense, we can probably avoid killing ourselves and our children. Should you feed your kids Timbits every night for dinner? Probably not. Is it likely you will find me doing this at least once during this next month? Yeah, damn skippy it is.

The problem is oversaturation. The Internet and social media mean that no matter whether something has been scientifically proven or not, it can be disseminated to skillions of people in an instant. This means that no matter what you do, and no matter what you're eating, there's a real good chance that someone out there has posted something about how dangerous it is.

Remember when our moms would hear that a particular item/food/habit was dangerous and:

a) dismissed the problem, because any kid stupid enough to die from it probably would have died walking in front of a bus before adulthood, anyway (cough- venetian blinds- cough, cough),

or,

b) decided it was an actual threat and kept you safe.

"DON'TYOUPUTYOURFACENEARTHATMICROWAVEOVENISWEARTOGODTHATISTHELASTTIMEIMTELLINGYOUNEXTTIMEILLJUSTSAYNOTHINGANDYOULLGROWATHIRDEYEANDIWONTTAKEYOUANYWHEREWITHME!!!!!"

That was back when the danger had to be real enough and well-documented enough and the story had to be verifiable enough to make it either into a newspaper or onto the TV or radio news (I am not including the National Enquirer here. No one ever actually BELIEVED there were alien baby goats being bred near Roswell, except the creepy lady down the block, and I'm pretty sure she was eating those cats). Now one person just needs to post a scary picture or study, and it's all over the world in a heartbeat.

I, being one of those women that finds it irritating to be told what to do, read each and every one of these articles, resolve to change my ways, then go back to doing whatever I was in the first place anyway. This is pretty much how I've lived my life since I was 2, and it works for me. (Not always so well for everyone around me, but that's a different blog.) If it makes you happy, I promise to make an effort to feel super guilty about it for a while, and act all ashamed and embarrassed when I feed my kids those Kraft crackers and cheese spread kits (not even for snacks, but in multiple quantities for breakfast, cause I haven't had my coffee and I've lost the will to care).

Here, in celebration of the fact that I will never actually get it right and have thusly given up trying; taken directly from an article posted on AceFitness.org, are the '5 Foods You Should Never Let Into Your Kitchen', each and every one of which are currently residing in my pantry....

1. Packaged instant oatmeal- although oats are actually very good for you, the sheer volume of sugar in the packaged instant stuff makes it entirely possible that your kid's head will spin around so violently that it flies completely off before 2nd period and at lunch they'll crash so hard the dislodged head will suffer a concussion. This is a shame, as instant oatmeal is what I feed the kids when I run out of Kraft Handi-Snacks.
2. Margarine- we all know margarine is made of calories and trans fats and manufactured by obese little demons in the 9th circle of hell. This isn't news. But it's cheaper than butter, and has the added bonus of maybe killing one of the kids, thereby further reducing my grocery bill. Everybody wins.
3. "Reduced Fat"* packaged foods- apparently, while reducing the fat in these foods, the manufacturers replace it with sugar to maintain the flavor. The problem is, now that we've cut out instant oatmeal, where exactly am I supposed to get my recommended daily value of sugar? Exactly. Reduced fat foods are the perfect vehicle for your sugar intake. How am I the only person to figure this out?????
4. "Diet"* soda- turns out artificial sweeteners can trigger your appetite to kick in, which is not ideal, and may actually alter the healthy bacteria in your stomach, which could lead to glucose intolerance. But it tastes better. Like, way better. I'm drinking one right now. Soooooo...............
5. Microwave popcorn- I agree. That stuff is shit.

Anyway- my thought for today is this. If you can put it in your mouth, are capable of chewing it, and it is not made of anything that your TV is also made out of, go ahead. Eat it. Just do it in moderation.

Living to 120 is no fun if it's bland.

*Quick side note, here- I particularly appreciate the author's use of quotation marks to emphasize their point. I would never have understood the article's slant without them.

On Communication

When did cell phones become disposable?

I had our first Motorola from 2000 until 2005, when Jason dropped it in a bucket of paint thinner. (I wouldn't recommend it- the phone became.... gooey), and have only owned two phones since then, because I treat them like expensive technology and take really good care of them. I didn't even need this last new phone, cause the old one worked just fine. I was just tired of buying new phones for OTHER people.

It all started when Isaiah got into junior high. He went to an alternative program outside our neighbourhood, so after MUCH back and forth and debate, we got him a Migo. I don't know if you've seen these- they didn't last long on the market, but basically, it was a keychain-looking thing with four buttons that the parent could program ahead of time. One push of the button, and you would be in contact with either our house, mom's cell, dad's cell, or Grandma. (There was also a separate button for calling 911 when the scary strangers came to take you away). He loved it. Right up till he had to use it in front of his friends. In 2006, this was not the phone all the cool kids were carrying. We called him plenty (and he answered- the rule in our house is 'If I pay for it, you answer it. Always.'), and there may have been a time or thrice where he hid in a bathroom or behind a dumpster and used it to call us, but that was the last time we saw the thing.

He had that phone until the end of grade eight, and then it got dropped in a snow bank and ruined. We got him a new phone, and the light went on in his hormone-clouded brain.

If you lose or break the old one, eventually, mom will get worried about not being in contact with you, and buy you a new one.

Liz got a phone in Grade 7 because her brother had gotten a phone in Grade 7, and I was exceedingly concerned about making sure life was EXACTLY FAIR for everyone and they both always got the same things at the same ages (I have since gotten over that. When we had Squiddy and Eva, we realised that our income was so much higher for those two that every DAY they would be experiencing something their older siblings had never gotten to. Like name brand food. And cable.).

Here's how it breaks down:

Liz- 

Phone #1- grade 7- a hot pink Motorola, which she kept in her shoe and one day in grade 8, whilst getting off the bus with a friend, it dropped OUT of her shoe and was run over by said bus. She didn't know it was laying shattered on the street until I called it and a stranger answered and I went to pick it up and it was smashed into a million pieces and ALL you could do was answer it. Once. Phone life- 1.5 years.

Phone #2- grade 8- a baby pink LG Keybo. She agreed to this phone because it was free and when we got their Christmas lists, they were allowed to pick an Ipod Touch OR a better cell phone (IPhones weren't out yet.). She picked the freebie phone, and promptly lost the $500 IPod at school. Phone life- 1.5 years. IPod life- 37 days.

Phone #3- grade 9, received a  brand new IPhone from Santa, which (tell me if you see a pattern here,) she kept in her boot and one day the next Christmas, whilst getting out of a car with a friend, it dropped OUT of her shoe and was run over by said car. She didn't know it was laying shattered on the street until she tried to text me and couldn't find her phone and immediately used a friend's phone to call her brother to get him to pave the way so we wouldn't kill her. Phone life- 1 year.

Phone #4- current phone- the piece of crap pink LG Keybo we found in the junk drawer. Expected phone life- till I decide to get a new phone and she gets the one I am currently using.

Isaiah-

Phone #1- grade 7- aforementioned Migo

Phone #2- grade 8- Motorola- washed in washing machine the first week I made him start doing his own laundry. (There's a lesson here, but I refuse to see it.) Phone life- 6 months.

Phone #3- grade 9- dad's old LG from junk drawer- fell out of backpack, never seen again. Phone life- 1 year.

Phone #4- grade 10- was given the same choice as Liz re: free phone or new Ipod Touch, and got the free black LG Keybo. He then went to camp and upon arrival, jumped in a lake with his shorts on and drowned the $500 IPod Touch.  I don't even remember what happened to the phone. Phone life- 1 year. IPod life- 6 months. His life- would have been much shorter if he hadn't been away at camp, but was saved by time and distance.

Phone #5- grade 11- old Blackberry of dad's from the junk drawer. Phone life- actually survived until the purchase of the following phone. Escaped back into junk drawer.

Phone #6- grade 12, received a  brand new IPhone from Santa, which (and tell me if you see a pattern HERE, too) he then took to camp and, upon arrival, jumped in the lake with his shorts on and drowned. Phone life- 6 months.

Phone #7- current phone- post high-school- same old Blackberry from the junk drawer. Phone life- till hell freezes over.

Who am I kidding? He's going to school in Edmonton in September, and what if a scary stranger comes to take him away? Or worse yet, what if he meets a girl and wants to never come back home???

At least if I pay for it, he'll have to answer it. Always...

Thunder

What are you doing?

Are you looking for something? 

Can I help you find it?

Oh. Your thunder.

Sorry.

I've probably stolen it.

My family tells me I have a problem. Although I agree with the premise of their theory, I just don't see it as an actual problem. More of a... quirk. Yes. I have a quirk.

No. It's a problem.

In fairness to me, I don't TRY to steal my family's thunder. I just get so freaking proud of them sometimes that it bubbles up and overflows out of my face before I can stop it. I live vicariously through my children, so when wonderful things happen to them, it's really like they're happening to me, so when I tell everyone else about it, it's kind of like sharing my own good news.

Wait. That's creepy.

I WANT them to share their own joy with others, but they do it so SLOWLY! If when wonderful things happened to them, they would immediately call Grandma, email Auntie Jamie, and text Auntie Lana, then I wouldn't HAVE to post things all over Facebook. And Facebook makes it so EASY! I can tell the whole world something in the eleven seconds it takes me to type it into my phone with my giant thumbs! They're driving me to it.

Now I sound like the guy on Court TV who 'feels bad that dude got killed', without mentioning that he was the one who did it.

I don't tell EVERYONE'S secrets. I have kept several good secrets over the past 30 odd years, and I am damn good at it. (For example, Emily Popp still has NO idea where on the playground we buried her toque). There is a difference between the secrets of your immediate family and the secrets of others, and I would never share the intimate details of someone I didn't live with. You behave differently with family than you do with everyone else.

Oh, for crying in the sink. Now I have selective mutism and multiple personality disorder.

How about some honesty...

I HAVE A GIANT FAT MOUTH. I TALK CONSTANTLY. MY FILTER IS BROKEN. I AM UTTERLY INCAPABLE OF KEEPING MY FAMILY'S SECRETS FOR LONGER THAN IT TAKES ME TO FIND MY PHONE.

When I was pregnant with Eva, Isaiah and I decided to find out the sex of the baby, and Liz and Jason didn't. What a horrible idea. For four months, I did beautifully, biting my tongue and hiding any gender-specific baby supplies, right up till 6 days before her birth, when I announced to Jason that once I washed the last of the new dresses, we would be all ready for baby to come.

I cried for three days. He was less disturbed, but he said "I told you so" for a week. And I let him.

The reason this has once again become an issue is because my eldest child recently had two amazing opportunities come up. None of my kids EVER does two wonderful things at once, so I've never been faced with this dilemma before. I thought I actually did a really good job- maybe not of keeping everything quiet, but of dispersing the information in such a way that no one knew EVERYTHING. I told my neighbour about the possible promotion at work, and waited until a night he was working before I told my best friends all about it at dinner. I mentioned his phone interview for school (the last step in the application process) to Jamie, but made Lana wait till the following weekend before I said anything to her. I dropped a few broad hints that the next time he saw them, he may or may not have some REALLY good news for them, but didn't share what that might be. Of course, I told my cousin all about it, knowing full well we had just been there for Easter and she wouldn't see him again for a few months, so she HAD to be told, and I told my online weight loss support group EVERYTHING, because none of them actually know me outside Facebook (ok- except the two friends also doing the challenge with me, but I've seen their before pictures, so I know they will take my secrets to their graves). I nonchalantly mentioned to Liz that she should ask her brother how his interview went, told Squid to ask him how he likes his job these days, and when I TRIED to interest Jason in a tidbit of information, he shut me right down (in quite a self-righteous tone, I thought.)

I even kept all my Facebook posts to a cryptic "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

All that work, and when the poor kid walked in the door the one night, Liz immediately told him "Mom says you might get a promotion!". Jason congratulated him on acing the phone interview for school, and rotten, rotten Squiddy announced that I had been crying all afternoon because I was so excited for him, and could he please have his room when he left. Each and every one of them threw me under the bus.

It's gotten so bad that when we and our best friends took him out for drinks the other night, and I asked him to share his good news with everyone, he got all confused and flustered and didn't know what to do and mumbled something about really enjoying his drink. He has no idea how to share his own thunder.

I need a twelve step program.

I would start one myself, but I'm pretty sure one of the basic tenets is anonymity. One look at a room full of people I wasn't supposed to talk about and I'd be right back to step one.

Every. Single. Time.

Insanity

Ow. 

Ow.

Ow.

I just finished working out, which I do now six days a week (insert well-muscled, slightly-too-forceful fist pump here), and my most heartfelt wish is not to be fit, or ripped, or built.

I just want the nausea to pass.

As many of you already know, I have recently joined a 3 Month Meltdown Challenge group, and am 21 days (and very, very, VERY close to 20 pounds) into my journey to getting naked on a beach this summer. (Which will come as a complete surprise to my husband and best friends, who are unaware that we're going to a nude beach. Also unaware are the owners of the beach and the rest of the beachgoers. Fun with surprises!!!!).

Because I am the type of person who requires ABSOLUTE IMMEDIATE GRATIFICATION, lest five minutes go by and I lose interest, when I picked a workout series, I went straight for the hard stuff. No ab toners or Richard Simmons or pretty jazzercise outfits here.

I'm not screwing around.

I went on the website, and this is the first thing I saw.

THE HARDEST WORKOUT PROGRAM EVER PUT ON DVD.

Are you ready for the ultimate challenge? You can transform your body in 60 days with this total body conditioning program. And you won't need equipment or weights—just the desire to dig deep and push past your limits.

In INSANITY®, Shaun T uses a method called Max Interval Training. It's not your typical interval workout. You'll do cardio and plyometric drills with intervals of strength, power, resistance, and core training. It all happens in long bursts of maximum-intensity exercises with short periods of rest so you can burn up to 1,000 calories in an hour.

Here is what I read...

THE ONLY WORKOUT PROGRAM YOU HAVE DONE IN RECENT HISTORY. PROBABLY EVER.

Are you ready for the ultimate challenge? We don't think so, either. But this is a magic DVD, guaranteed to transform your body in 60 days. And you won't need equipment or weights— you don't even need to sweat. Just sit back, relax, and watch the fat fall off your ass.

In INSANITY®, Shaun T uses a method called Max Interval Training. You don't need to know what that means. There's a lot of nonsense about cardio and plyometric drills with intervals of strength, power, resistance, and core training and blah de blah de blah de blah blah blah..... short periods of rest so you can burn up to 1,000 calories in an hour.

Piece of cake. I am WICKED good at short periods of rest. It's stopping them that I have issues with.

The first workout is actually a 'Fit Test', comprised of a bunch of timed exercises. You do as many as you can in one minute, write them down, and compare your results every two weeks.

I don't claim to be the most coordinated person I've ever met, so I studied the pictures of each exercise on the progress chart in order to have a reference point to start with. The black and white sketch lady explained everything, and looked reasonably good in the process, so I hit 'Play' and away I went.

I watched the disclaimer at the beginning of the DVD, chuckling to myself that anyone would be so stupid as to try this workout without already being reasonably fit. I mean hell, I push a fully loaded quadruple stroller back and forth to a school four times a day, and that's 200 pounds right there! And uphill, to boot (only in the one direction, though)!

I started the first exercise, and merrily (somewhat) high kicked my way to glory. At the end of the minute, as I wrote down my number, I noticed it was a good 10 reps HIGHER than the skinny girl in the video. Holy crap! I was amazing! I was a machine! I was... Wait a sec... I was probably wrong. I know I felt reasonably fit, but that girl was like a piece of beef jerky- not a single ounce of fat on her. Then I realized that one rep equaled one kick PER LEG, and my joy deflated like a fat kid's seat cushion. I reduced my number by half.

The next exercise was a little harder, and I noticed that I was beginning to sweat profusely, which struck me as odd, as the black and white sketch lady on the progress chart still looked as fresh as a daisy.

I jumping jacked. I push-upped. I obliqued. I even finally found out what the hell 'planking' was.

And at the end of the last exercise, I found myself laying on my face, sucking in gasps of oxygen and copious amounts of dust, glitter, and the odd salt and vinegar chip from the carpet in the downstairs playroom, thinking about vomiting.

I say I was THINKING about vomiting, because when I decided I was going to, I couldn't stand up. I eyeballed the drain in the floor in front of the washing machine, and seriously thought about crawling over there, but the effort required simply to lift my head indicated to me that a ten foot trip across a cement floor would be an impossibility.

By the time I was able to stand, the urge to vomit had passed.

I went to bed.

I went into the following day's workout with a little more apprehension and a little less clothing. My eyes aren't overly great, and I didn't want to work out with my glasses on, but I figured as long as I could see what Shaun "Obviously a Cyborg" T was doing, it didn't matter how fuzzy the edges were. 

After three rounds of incredibly hard and fast jogging, jumping, kneeing and contracting, with sweat literally POURING off my face, I took my well-deserved water break when Shaun instructed me to. He led us (see how quickly you want to drink the Kool-Aid? I was already identifying with his sinewey band of workout buddies) through our stretches. We slowed down, we checked our heart rates, and we inhaled and we exhaled. When the stretches ended, as I threw myself backwards onto the couch and poured water on my face from a Gatorade squeeze bottle, I listened for Shaun's final words of encouragement for the day.

"OK, " he says, "now that we're warmed up, you have nine seconds left, then we're really going to do some work, and we're really going to get into it. This one is going to push you, so remember to DIG DEEPER!!!!!!!!!!!"

I had failed to see the countdown timer at the bottom of the screen.

As I inched my way closer, squinting for all I was worth, I could see that we had gotten all of 18 minutes into the 40 minute workout. We had warmed up. My leg muscles were shaking so bad I could HEAR THEM, you could play water polo in the sweat in my sports bra, my ears were ringing, and we had warmed up. Oh, sweet mother of pearl. We had warmed up.

I have been Googling inspirational words and phrases to keep myself motivated, and I keep coming up with mildly helpful crap like "Pain is Just Weakness Leaving Your Body", and "Suck It Up, Don't Suck It In", and "You Earn Your Scars". These are all great, but I'm thinking of having my own workout shirt made.

It will say "Just Don't Puke on the Carpet."

I'll Be Slipping Down Sewer Grates in No Time...

So, for those of you who have read my blog before, specifically 'Body Mass and Shame', you know that for me, the road to fitness is paved with both good intentions, and the mutilated corpses of my former selves who have given up and died rather than face one more day trying to change.

This time, it's different. (I can hear you. Stop laughing.)

This time, I mean it.

This time, I bought running shoes.

With my usual iron clad logic, I recently turned to Facebook for guidance in my constant struggle to lose weight. Nothing says 'really getting out there and making an effort to get skinny' like sitting on your ass in front of the computer, I know, but it seems that the fates were on my side.

Through a post from a cousin of a friend of the friend of a high school acquaintance who married a girl who had a kid in the same band as my eldest daughter (or something); I discovered Beach Body, the company that puts out the P90X and Slim in Six workouts. (Incidentally, the name 'Team Beachbody' offers a multitude of opportunities for size-inspired hilarity. More on that later). I have seen these ads before, and have mentally filed them in the same place I file the emails about my giant inheritance from the pastor in Nigeria.

This time, I bit. Not only because the woman behind the profile was an actual human located in the same province as myself, but because the signup fee was considerably less than the cost of a two year membership to yet another gym. Also, there are no more gyms in the neighbourhood, and I don't want to have to add 'not driving somewhere' to the 'not working out' portion of my exercise regime.

Basically, what I've done is joined her three month challenge group, which offers me a monthly supply of a great vegan meal replacement shake (although 'great' and 'vegan' are words that should stay in separate bedrooms, this one is actually less offensive than most), nutritional and exercisual (whatever- it SHOULD be a word) support from Rosa the coach, and a copy of the workout series of my choice. All for what is actually a really reasonable price. And I wheedled two friends into doing it, too, which reduces my misery by at least half.

I live in fear of making myself look stupider than I already do, so I refuse to get all cocky and rah-rah about it, as I have a history of multiple failed attempts to slim down, but I will say this; the combination of nonstop support, diet and the ridiculously hard workouts seem to finally be doing what all the gyms couldn't. I am so glad for Facebook. I love Rosa. I need her. I need to be held accountable. I need someone who will tell me that International Delights creamers are not a drink unto themselves and that gummy fish are not protein. I have lost 13 pounds in two weeks, and I am only just beginning my journey. And I really, truly, FIRMLY believe that my success will continue (Again. I can hear you. STOP LAUGHING!). So much so that I have vowed to buy a 2 piece bathing suit and wear it all summer (which IMMEDIATELY prompted my best friend to invent the newly-patented 'shirt for the eyes', the thought of which was so funny it caused a hysterical semi-drunken laughing fit which went on for hours).

In fact, if my progress continues, and I reach my goal by July 18th (I am not telling you what the goal is, so that if I must, I can welsh on this particular bet and you will never know the difference), I will show even you, my beloved friends, family, and strangers from cyber-space, my before and after pictures. I realize July is actually FIVE months from March, not three, but I am giving myself an extra sixty days because my goals are lofty ones indeed.

The before pictures, currently only seen by myself, my daughter, a girlfriend who REALLY needed some motivation, and Jason, (who sees a version of them EVERY night, oh lucky, lucky boy), are so truly bad that Liz had to close her eyes while taking them.

Imagine, if you will, a large marine mammal. I jest about my size, but am self-aware enough to realize there are people much fatter than I, so we won't imagine a HUGE marine mammal. Not a blue whale or a humpback (besides, I had that taken care of), but a smaller whale, like a beluga, or the majestic orca, perhaps.

Take your beluga out of its natural environment. Put it in a dire situation (perhaps it has beached itself due to its massive size and inability to manoeuvre and desperately needs intervention by Greenpeace- use your imagination!). Really stress it out. Make it all flushed and sweaty.

Now put it in a red sports bra. Take your time. There's a lot of squishing involved. Adjust if you need to, and make sure the pectoral fins are firmly restrained. It's hard work, but trust me, the end result will be worth it.

Put some spandex workout shorts on it. This is a little harder and more labour intensive, but we've got some time before the weight of the giant creature crushes the life out of it. You've got to really wrestle the tail flukes in there, because those belugas can be slippery, what with all that salt water. Tuck in the last bit of blubber, take a few calming breaths, and you're ready to go.

Stand your fish up. Prop it against a wall if need be, and before it slumps over due to lack of breathable oxygen, snap a picture. Hell- take one from every angle. Really focus on those dorsal fins. Make sure you get the most coverage possible, so that when your killer whale transforms into a beautiful.... (What's a skinny, attractive fish, anyway- are there any? Cause the only ones I can think of are pretty terrifying, like the viperfish, or the moray eel...) .... skinny fish thing, the obvious improvement will win it a free tee-shirt.   

Recently, I went to a 'Passion Party', where one of the items in the catalogue was a one piece fishnet body stocking (AGAIN with the whales- why do women DO this to themselves???). I laughingly told Jason that I was going to buy it, and he, with all the finesse of Captain Ahab, offered to give me the cost of the body stocking NOT to buy the thing. If by July I have seen a reasonable improvement, I am buying it. And I am wearing it in some 'after' pictures (his, not yours).

I digress. The point is this:

If things go well, I vow to follow through and offer the appropriate before and after pictures to everyone who wants to see them. Because if I can do this, so help me God, I will show that body off (the same body, incidentally, that got me into boy trouble in high school and knocked up four times and started this whole mess) to everyone with functioning eyeballs. (If things don't go well, I will re-title this blog, file it with my previous failures, and pretend that I have no idea what you're talking about when you ask how it's going.)

Tune in next week to find out which workout program I chose, and why I wish I would just have a heart attack and be dead already.

The Dangers Of Breastfeeding

I love newborn babies.

I love them so much.

I love the way the look, and the way they smell, and the way they cuddle right into the crook of your neck.

I love them so much that every once in a while I think I maybe want another one. 

And then I remember how much I like being the only person who owns my boobs.

I'm a big believer in breastfeeding. Not because it's good for the baby, or because it promotes mother-baby bonding or because it can prevent breast cancer. Forget all that. That's just noise.

What breastfeeding is really good for is SUCKING UP EXTRA CALORIES SO YOU CAN EAT YOUR WEIGHT IN BROWNIES. If I hadn't breastfed all four of my kids, I would be competing for my own bedsheet-draped-remote-interview-from-my-hospital-bed on Jerry Springer by now. I have approximately four years of breastfeeding under my belt, which means that in those four years I could eat (or so I thought) virtually everything in my path. That's not entirely true, which has led to some weight issues (See 'Body Mass and Shame'), but that's a whole different topic.

I don't know that men realize just how awful breastfeeding is. I was one of those moms who started doing it for all the wrong reasons (namely, I eat a lot of granola and have been known to cry over dead trees) and I very quickly realized just how irritating it is to not be the sole proprietor of one of your body parts.

Imagine, if you will, walking down an icy sidewalk with groceries in either hand, and suddenly having a loud, demanding, crying homeless man run up, knock the groceries to the ground, and grab your arms because it's his turn to use them. Or piloting an airplane and crashing it into the Andes because the flight attendant in jump seat 2 needed your eyes for a few minutes. Or filling up your car with gas, getting it washed, waxed, and detailed for a night out on the town, and having your next door neighbor insist on taking the car, throwing up all over it, giving it a really good dent on the way back into the driveway, and telling you to hurry back in two hours so he can do it all over again.

The bitterness you may have detected in the preceding statements is part of the reason why women pump breast milk. Because it's nice for the dads to get up every once in a while for the four a.m. feeding. Because sometimes you don't want any more spit up INSIDE your bra. And because you want to spend one evening getting a little drunk in a formal gown without having to whip out a boob in front of your co-workers and ring the dinner bell.

Although our first babies were 100% breastfed, with Squid, Jason and I had made a point of allowing (forcing) him to have a bottle of formula every day in order to keep him interested in breastfeeding, but allowing for the possibly that there were going to be some occasions where I simply couldn't feed him. Where Squid was OK with this compromise, Eva was not. She could be forced to drink out of a bottle, if said bottle wasn't being held by me, but no way in HELL was she drinking that horrible formula. (I don't blame her. Taste the stuff. It's right up there with paint thinner and dog vomit.)

As a consequence, I got very good at pumping. We do a lot of driving to and from the Crowsnest Pass, as that is where all of our kids attend camp, and counsel camp, and volunteer at camp, and attend camp reunions, so Jason and I decided to invest in a really good, portable, you-can-power-it-with-the-cigarette-lighter-in-your-car breast pump.

This thing was awesome. It pumped the equivalent of 3000 Holsteins worth of milk every nanosecond. It had super high-powered suction so that not only would it stay on while you drove, but would vacuum you to your seat without the aid of a seatbelt. It even had a fancy little attachment that allowed you to switch out bottles in the middle of pumping in case baby was REALLY hungry and couldn't wait any longer. In short, it was cool. Not 'show the neighbors' cool, but cool nonetheless.

In preparation for our camping trip that year, which was a five hour drive from the house (and as far as I was capable of travelling with a two month old, a five year old, and two teenagers), I pumped enough milk to get us through the drive, and a few extras to throw in the freezer when we got there. If I stuck one teenager next to each little kid in the van, we might not even have to actually stop. (Jason doesn't enjoy stopping. I have driven past more historic sights and roadside attractions than I can count, and Squid has learned how to pee in a water bottle).

We started Eva off with a really good feeding before we put her in her carseat, and placed a brand new bottle beside her for when she got hungry again, as the kid ate like clockwork every two hours.

With the perfect timing that is the hallmark of every infant everywhere, Eva promptly fell asleep, and chose that very day to have her first five hour long nap. About 45 minutes from our destination, she woke up, realized it had been five hours, and LOST it, demanding to be fed. To wait until she was screaming hysterically with hunger was cruel to the other campers, as we would be pulling in to our site around midnight, and pulling over on the single lane highway was not an option.

I congratulated myself on my foresight and planning, dug out the spare milk, and realized that the only actual bottle we remembered to bring was the one sitting beside Eva, currently full of warm, five hour old, probably poisonous, milk that had been sitting in direct sunlight since we left town. Although we had tons of those little freezer bags of milk, we had no delivery system.

Luckily, I hadn't completely finished my bottle of water, and we realized that all we needed to do was dump the old milk, rinse the baby bottle, refill, and our problem was solved. Liz passed the old bottle up to the front of the van, and (have I mentioned Jason did not like to stop on the way out camping?), in full view of the hot guy in the red sports car behind us, I rolled down the window, opened the bottle of milk, and poured.

At 110 kilometers an hour.

As it dawned on me what I had done, there was a scream from the backseat of the van. The breast milk, after flowing down the side of the van and coating the middle window with a opaque film of life-giving goodness, had found the path of least resistance, and (fortunately, by then much reduced in volume), REentered the van through the open back window, splattering Squid with the dregs of Eva's uneaten, curdled dinner. Luckily, by leaving the back window open, we had avoided having that extra milk coat the windshield of the hot guy in the car behind us, blinding him, and causing him to drive off the road into a ditch. I was grateful for that much, but I have to tell you, throwing bodily fluids at him didn't do a lot for the 'flirt with the 20 year old hottie in the sports car' portion of my evening.

I can only assume that it was new-mommy hormones and sleep deprivation that led to the debacle, but when the sun rose the following morning and illuminated the side of the van, revealing the sheer QUANTITY of milk I had poured out the window and left to dry in the night, I couldn't help but be impressed. That was one hell of a breast pump.

Yeah. On second thought, I don't love babies all THAT much.

Oops. We Did It Again....

Before anyone panics, I promise. This has nothing to do with babies.
Honey- breathe.

Sometime near the end of 2011, I published a post entitled "Dirty Night Out", detailing my and Jason's first foray into bingo.

I promised Jason I wouldn't talk about it, and I kept it to myself for almost a whole month, but a blog is like a confessional. I'm almost driven to bare my soul. Therefore, it is with the deepest shame and utmost regret that I have to inform you, my loyal readers, that we did it again. 

Twice.

I feel so cheap.

So dirty.

So.... polyester.

And oh, God, it felt so good....

Because we enjoyed ourselves so much on our first trip, we invited Jamie and Shawn to come with us when we went the second time, sometime around September 2012, which was just long enough after the first trip to guarantee that we would forget everything we had learned the previous year about how to play.

Although Jamie and Shawn were more than willing participants (especially once we told Shawn that the Grey Eagle Casino serves beer in the bingo hall), I still feel a little guilty about the whole thing, because it was obvious they were sucked in by my stories of the glitz, the high-rolling excitement, the glamorous atmosphere, and the huge windfalls just waiting to be discovered on their 6-4 Baseball cards.

Alas. It was not to be.

None of us won a thing. There were a few near misses, when one of us would get within 5 or 6 numbers of winning before some other sucker would win some lousy thirty dollar pot, but that was about as close as we came to glory. The most thrilling part of the evening was when Jason spilled his popcorn at the same time as Shawn spilled his beer and we floated the popcorn around like little boats until Jamie got back with the napkins. There was a brief bit of excitement when Jamie and I won 'Good Neighbor Cards' for sitting near someone who actually won (they should actually call these things 'Sour Grapes Cards'.  There was nothing remotely neighborly about the thoughts I was having when that ancient old crone yelled 'Bingo'), and we got to try our hands at marking real, live, paper bingo cards, in real time as the caller called the numbers. Our first obstacle there was that neither of us owned a dabber (dauber?), and we were forced to mark the cards with a pen, which I think might actually invalidate the damn things. Worse, however, was the brief hiccup in the space-time continuum, which made the caller appear to be calling numbers at light speed, with the unfortunate result that neither of us was able to keep up. We got so far behind that we finally realized that even if we DID think we had won, we could never actually yell "Bingo', because there was no way we had all the numbers right, and appearing stupid in a room full of people I am trying to look down on does a number on my self esteem every time.

As a group, we had been marginally successful on our trip to Vegas for Shawn's 40th, so we had assumed we possessed the magic. We left the bingo hall that evening, hopes dashed, dreams shattered, vowing never to return.

But it creeps up on you, see?

You go about your life, living from day to day like every addict does, and it creeps up on you. One minute you're in Old Navy, doing some Boxing Week shopping for jeans that fit (Five pairs, baby! I LOVE that place!), and the next, you realize you have a few leftover Christmas dollars with nothing to do, and you're barreling down Deerfoot, trying to get the kids home from the mall in time to make the 6:45 cutoff when they won't let you buy any more tickets.

So we went again.

We chose a different table this time, because it was clear that the side of the bingo hall we had been sitting on with Jamie and Shawn three months previously had bad vibes. We picked a single table, on the opposite side of the hall. It had a great view of the entire space, which meant we could watch the creepy, weird bingo players at the same time as we (ahem) played ourselves.

We briefly discussed buying a dauber (dabber?) and some paper tickets, but the memories of our previous Good Neighbor Cards were still too fresh. We settled on buying a few of the special games we hadn't played the last time around (but only those ones that went on the digital machines, thanks!), bought ourselves some fries and pop, and away we went.

Fail.

Was our constant belittling of the whole culture angering the Bingo Gods and ensuring our everlasting lucklessness? We stopped making fun, and I even tried to admire someone's dauber (dabber?) caddy. We changed the color and shapes of the electronic dabbers (daubers?), with absolutely no effect, put on careful masks of boredom, in an attempt to trick the caller into thinking we didn't want to win, and even asked the old guy at the next table over if we were using the machines right. All to no avail.

And then came the epiphany. Just after the last game of the first half of the evening event, immediately after the caller announced intermission, someone across the hall from us had a seizure, fell off their seat, and lost consciousness.  It was terrifying for him, I'm sure, and security had to call 911. When the paramedics came, they administered medication, the guy sat up, and when they attempted to transport him to the hospital, he REFUSED TO LEAVE THE BINGO HALL. He didn't want to leave his cards, he didn't want to leave the game, and he wasn't going anywhere, thank you very damn much. After much back and forth, and cajoling and arguing by the paramedics and the security staff, the poor fellow left the casino under his own steam, and the medical staff got a rousing round of applause.

And Jason turned to me and said, "I didn't want to say anything till it was obvious he was ok, but did you notice that guy waited for intermission? THAT'S a bingo player!!!!!"

As I dug my knuckles as far as I could into the sensitive space between Jason's 6th and 7th ribs, I couldn't help but think that maybe he had a point. All the stuff we were doing to win was kinda half-assed. We fiddled with digi machines, pretended not to care whether we won or not, and generally made a mockery of the whole game. That was wrong. In order to win, we had to go all the way, and really, REALLY commit to the process.

We picked up our stuff, and moved across the hall to our 'lucky' spot, where we had first played, lo those many (2) trips ago. We threw out what we were eating and duplicated our food from the first time (when the concession only serves two things that don't suck, and beer, it's pretty easy to remember your 'lucky' meal). We bought our late night tickets from the same lady who had sold them to us the very first time we had walked in the door, started up our machines, and waited for the riches to roll in.

The effects were almost immediate.  Not only were we getting more numbers, we were getting closer and closer to actually winning a game. And it finally happened. Jason smacked me on the arm for all he was worth and muttered, "Hey- watch this! I'm going to bingo on the next number!" (He does not have precognitive powers- for those of you who've never been, they actually display the next number for a second or two before calling it to give people (with paper tickets and far more skill) a chance to get ahead.)

"Yeah- you and ten others.... " I whispered, secretly gleeful that my plan had paid off.

The caller called the next number and Jason was the only one to yell and wave his pretty orange card in the air. Fifty bucks! There was something to the whole superstition thing after all! We had a workable strategy!

The ticket seller who stood beside him gave him and myself a few of those Good Neighbor Cards, which we promptly handed to the two older ladies sitting behind us. When Jason told them we couldn't understand them, and didn't own daubers (dabbers?) anyway, they offered to lend us theirs, but we declined. Once you have a scientifically proven system, to add unknown variables and possibly skew the results is sheer folly. Plus, we were still too stupid to keep up with the caller.

The prize runner came over with Jason's slip midway through the following game, and he kept it under his machine like a good luck totem. We had won back a portion (not nearly as big a portion as it would have been had we exercised some self control with the lady at the entrance to the hall) of what we had spent on our evening, had enjoyed some time to ourselves, and we were feeling a little smug.

With only one game left to go, it seemed like a reasonable assumption that we were tapped out, luck-wise, so we weren't really paying attention when the next game came up, and my digi machine told us I was 18 numbers away from a win.

Jason was five.

Huh. The troll doll theory was proving itself once again.

Then he was four numbers away.

We took a look at the program for the evening, which tells you what the payout is based on the attendance (something we had made a point of deciphering during the intermission that evening), and realized that Jason could very well win $150, assuming he was the only winner.

Then he was at three.

Then two.

Jason grabbed my arm and frantically whispered, "Omigodlookatthenextnumber!"

B6. The only number Jason needed to win, and the number showing on the caller's screen. Both were B6. This was freaking awesome!

The caller called B6, and, to our immense surprise, Jason was the only person in the room to yell "BINGO!!!!!"  He had won the whole prize! The whole $150! Holy crap!!!!

I did some quick math and realized that he was about to pay the remaining portion of the cost of the evening's entertainment. We were about to leave the bingo hall having spent NOT A CENT on the world's most expensive board game!

The radio lady came over and confirmed with the caller that Dean had, indeed, gotten a bingo. The caller them asked her to check and make sure Dean had purchased that evening's pots (up till just then, we still had no idea what they were, but we didn't want to seem stupid, so we bought them anyway), and when the lady with the radio nodded yes, everyone in the hall let out a little gasp of breath. Huh?

"In addition to winning the game, ladies and gentlemen, tonight's Pot #2 number was B6, standing at $1153. Congratulations to our winner!"

Seriously? We had perfected our strategy and Jason had won a measly $150, and some lucky SOB won almost $1200? As I turned to look for the person who had won all this money, the two old gals behind us started to giggle.

"See?" they cackled, "It's because of those Good Neighbor Cards you gave us. They brought you good karma!!!"

The penny finally dropped, and I turned to Jason (whose thought processes were light years ahead of mine on this particular evening), slapped him in the arm and shrieked, "HOLY SHIT, YOU JUST WON $1200!!!!!!!!!!", causing the rest of the hall to burst out laughing.

I have no idea what the last game was. I don't know if I came close to winning, if I actually won, or if the roof caved in under the weight of 3000 rabid pigs. I remember Jason being handed a cheque, and I remember the caller congratulating him, and thanking me for my over-the-top reaction, which he never gets to see, as everyone else feigns disinterest, and I remember the cashier telling us on the way out that they would cash the cheque for us at the casino slot cages (oh, I bet they will...).

We can't go back. It took exactly three trips to transform us from normal people into the type of card-carrying crazies who don't wash the socks they were wearing when they won the satellite bingo prize. We fell in line, and the Bingo Gods smiled upon us. We (metaphorically) bought their troll dolls and wore their lucky hats. We dyed our metaphysical hair purple, wore polyester Sansa-Belt slacks, bought a carton of Salem Menthol Slims to last us the evening, hooked up our O2 tanks, and waded into the crazy end of the gene pool. And gold rained upon us and plunked us on the heads.

We could never duplicate this evening. We would go broke trying. I know when we've had enough of a good thing, and when it's time to stop. I prefer to quit BEFORE the 12-Step meetings in the church basement. I see the way things are headed. I have seen the inside of my last bingo hall.

We've booked a trip to Vegas.

On Accidental Blindness

So, after my little rant earlier about how desperate I am for me time, I got to thinking about the me time I've had in the past, what I've enjoyed about it, and what I would or would not do again.

I don't know about you guys, but for me, the list of 'Things I Would Do Again' is often eclipsed by the list of 'Crap. That Was Stupid ' (see '*Appendix A' for an itemized list). However, sometimes, 'Things I Would Do Again' and 'Crap. That Was Stupid' come together in a cacophony of fun. Most of THOSE things aren't repeatable in a blog, or won't wash out of a Las Vegas hotel room carpet (Ahem. Shawn.), but every once in a while, they're G-rated enough to share.

Years ago, when Jason and I only had two kids, we bought a condo. The condo doesn't really figure into the story, except to explain to you that we had funnelled our already meagre resources into buying the damn thing and paying the mortgage, taxes, and condo fees, which, when combined, were roughly 19824659% of our monthly income (See 'On Poverty'). We had no extra cash, and I worked full time nights at Starbucks, only to get up every morning to get Isaiah to school after Jason left for work and spend the day parenting two year old Liz. I felt then as I do now. Drained. With no elastic in the budget, and with Jason and I never actually being in the same house at the same time, there was very damn little I could do about it.

And then, in a discussion with my best friends in the whole wide world, Jamie and Lana, we discovered that we were all feeling that way, and we decided the three of us would go away, sans husbands and kids, to relax.

Since, at the time, we were all in a similar financial drought, we decided that 3 nights in a hotel in Edmonton, shopping, perhaps drinking a bit, and hitting a spa, was the perfect plan. We picked a date far, far into the future, so that we could water down the apple juice and feed the kids store brand Ichiban to save money, and when the day arrived, we piled into Jamie's brand, spanking, used Chevy Lumina for the trip.

We had a blast. In the 7 hours it took us to get there (time lapse caused by the fact that Whitemud Drive crosses all of Edmonton eleventy-one times and covers roughly two-thirds of northern Alberta and most of the Northwest Territories and at no time actually connected with the street we needed), we talked more than we had in years. I did much of the talking, as I was allowed to neither to drive or navigate (my best friends were too kind to say it, but no one wanted to die that weekend, or get eaten by wolves in the back country). We found things out about each other that we had either never known, or had simply forgotten. We stopped at the A&W in Somedamnwhere, Alberta, and found out that restaurants in places north of Calgary smell funny. We sang along with the radio, and we giggled till we had to pull the car over. We curled up on the beds in our hotel room and drank till we wished we hadn't. We played Speed, our favourite card game since high school, eight thousand times. We ate real Mexican food, and tried mole sauce for the first time. We found out that Mexicans have a cruel sense of humour and that mole sauce was an evil waste of good chocolate. We window shopped, and real shopped, and found out that stores in places north of Calgary smell funny, too. We found a teeny, tiny, out of the way spa, the owner of which, when we told her we were three exhausted moms on a brief vacation away from our families, called in a massage therapist on her day off just so we could all have massages at the same time. Lana and I watched Jamie not be able to eat a Cinnabon because she was too hung over to look at the icing (it was fascinating because it was the one and only time ANYTHING has ever trumped Cinnabon), and at some point, we decided to go swimming. Near the end of the trip, the three of us spent a few hours screwing around in the wave pool. Jamie and I even got brave enough to go down the two really, really huge slides (screaming all the way), and  catching a TERRIFYING amount of air about halfway down. Lana calmed us down at the bottom.

At this point, Jamie had an awful hangover, a chlorine high, and a mother of a head cold coming on. When we got back to the room, her head ached, she reeked of swimming pool, her eyes were itchy, and the cold medicine wasn't helping. Lana passed her the bottle of Visine that she keeps with her contacts, and told her to put a few drops in, and maybe her eyes would quit bugging her so much, at least.

Jamie tilted her head back, dripped a drop of Visine into her left eye, and let out a shriek so high pitched that it sent small breed dogs for miles around into a frenzied panic.

"OMIGOD, IT BURNS, IT BURNS, IT HUUUUUUUUUURTS!!!!!!!!!!!"

What a wuss. Lana and I stared at her. Seriously? What was wrong with this woman? It was saline, for heaven's sake. We understood she wasn't feeling particularly well, but my God, did we need this kind of drama? I can't specifically remember, but I believe that at that point, we made her lie down on the hotel room bed and one of us held her head while the other one put the drops into her other eye. And the screeching doubled, in both volume and intensity.

"OMIGOD, IT'S LIKE YOU'RE POURING ACID INTO MY EYES!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT STUFF????"

It was at this point that I started to think that perhaps what Jamie was saying had some validity  No one can sustain a sound like that unless there is something, no matter how ridiculous, behind it.

"Oh, for crying out loud," said Lana, "look- it's just eye drops. I use them all the time." And with that, she tilted her head back and gave the bottle a good, healthy squeeze.

I assume that West Edmonton Mall over-chlorinated their pool because so many people used it. Who knows? They may even have stopped using chlorine altogether- I haven't been back to Edmonton since that trip. It seems, however, that this particular brand of eye drops reacts negatively with chlorine, and by the time the two of them had stopped screaming and I had gotten their eyes washed out, they looked like we'd spent the last 3 days smoking some really good Silver Haze (I actually had to look that up. If it's wrong, don't tell me. It sounds cool.) It was awesome. They blinked funny for hours afterwards, and leaked involuntary tears all the way back to Calgary.

To this day, whenever any of us does something incredibly dumb, someone invariably starts to yell "IT BURNS, IT BURNS!!!!!!!!!!" When you have friends as good as mine, sometimes you are lucky enough to participate in 'Things I Would Do Again', and be the one too smart to commit 'Crap. That Was Stupid', ALL IN THE SAME NIGHT.

These are the me times that I treasure.

*Appendix A ('Crap. That Was Stupid'):

• Every decision I made between September 1990 and October 1993, specifically those regarding boys and booze, in that order, aside from the decision to date Jason. That one worked.

• Acid wash jeans.

Farts

Come on, even if you wanted to, it's impossible to skip past a post with a title like that.

I am, at heart, a four year old. Although I am perfectly capable of appreciating the humorous undertones of Dickens' tongue-in-cheek social commentary on Victorian society, nothing makes me cackle like an ill timed blowout. Perpetrated by someone else, of course. I don't fart. But I've heard other people do.

Farts are just stressful all around. Starting with what to call it. If you were my Grandma, the solution was simple. Farts never occurred. Ever. Except by terminally ill people. But even then, you didn't refer to them by name.

My mom referred to them as 'toots' or 'fluffs', which made you think that the escaping air was coming out in pink, bunny-shaped clouds reeking of cotton candy and strawberry lip gloss. Her other term was 'passing gas', which simply brings us right back to Grandma's terminally ill breakers of wind.

I, for one, do not mind the term 'fart' escaping the orifices of people over the age of 12, but something about my darling 2 and 6 year olds using the term makes me twitchy. It's cute coming out of the mouths of tweens, and crass when uttered by toddlers. Odd. Then there's 'flatulence', which makes you feel like the gas you passed isn't good enough or smart enough... it's enough to make a person cry.

And how long, exactly, are you supposed to know someone before you can fart in front of each other with impunity? Elementary school children seem to be able to cope with each others' minor embarrassments with a modicum of class and good manners (after a prolonged bout of giggling), but let one rip in the middle of a quarterly budget meeting, and you will never get past it. They will never speak of it, but every time you push back your naugahyde chair to stand up and begin your presentation, people's noses will involuntarily wrinkle. I have tattoos with less staying power.

Is mutually comfortable farting age-dependant? In your forties, is it completely inappropriate to fart in front of anyone, but the farther you travel on either side of the golden age (be it 15 or 83), the more acceptable it becomes?

Or does it depend upon the level of intimacy? Once you have known your best friends for more than twenty years, is it acceptable to just fart and NOT spend the rest of your evening running outside to 'check on the kids' every time the urge approaches? Should you trumpet your successes, or hide your face in shame? (I tend to straddle the fence on this one, announcing "Wait for it....wait for it...." then developing stage fright, impeding my desire to thoroughly gross out whichever best friend is currently sitting next to me.)

Or does it depend on the sex of the person next to whom you are farting? I had a relationship (a long, LONG time ago) with someone who flat out refused to fart in front of me, preferring instead to percolate silently until they thought I was asleep, at which point the sudden cacophony of flatulence made it seem as though all the demons of hell were making a break for the only available escape hatch at once, screaming in frustration when they were forced to squeeze their way out, one tiny banshee at a time...

Or should you simply let it all hang out, as do some of the people I am married to, gleefully celebrating every vapour, as you surreptitiously watch to see which one of your children will vacate the room in response to your gift? Jason has actually EMPTIED THE OUTDOORS with a camping fart of such nauseating proportions that the children in the playground next to the outhouse were forced to re-enter their respective trailers. That is a shame which I, as a wife, will never live down. He has done grosser things, but I will not discuss them here. (At least, until I run out of ideas...) (No seriously. That one will never get talked about. I'm still irritated. So those of you who know it can keep it to yourselves.)

My grandpa, who I miss dearly, was always very careful what he said and did in front of his granddaughters. As I get older I am finding out that there are things he was far more likely to discuss with the boys (war, for example, and what happens on leave) than he was with us. Any time he let his guard down in front of us, therefore, was a moment to be cherished and recapped over Thanksgiving dinner for years to come.

As we get older, our muscles naturally start to relax, and our hearing naturally starts to fail. Grandpa had this issue, with the result that sometimes he farted when he didn't mean to, and when he did, he didn't always hear it happening.

After Grandma passed away, Grandpa slowly came to the realization that he might be happier in a seniors complex rather than the three story condo they had lived in for so many years. It took time, but eventually he had my mother list it and start to have  a realtor show it in the interests of downsizing. Although I don't remember whether or not the realtor did most of the showings, or whether they were always left up to us, on one occasion a couple wanting a second visit called to see if they could come back as they wanted to take a more in depth look at the place. Grandpa told them that he and his daughter would be there to answer any questions, and over they came. I had already been at mom's house with the kids, and decided that I would come with her and we'd have a little family lunch afterwards.

At this stage of life, Grandpa was starting to get more comfortable saying what he was thinking, and my mother started to get flustered immediately when the couple asked about condo fees and property taxes and Grandpa began a rant about highway robbery. As she was trying desperately to let the couple know that the condo fees were, in fact, quite reasonable, I noticed my son, who was 8 or 9 at the time, and standing beside my grandfather, turn beet red and start to giggle. It turned out that Grandpa was getting so worked up discussing the government taking whatever they could in property taxes from old men on a fixed income, that he was beginning to punctuate his sentences with a machine-gun like rat-a-tat-tat of farts. The more mom tried to steer the conversation in another direction, the more fixated Grandpa became, and the more sustained the fusillade. It eventually got so bad that my mother derailed the conversation altogether and suggested we start by looking upstairs. My mother led the way, in case Grandpa fell, as he had been having trouble with stairs lately, and grandpa, eager to show off his home, followed her. The poor couple, who had no idea what they were getting into, came next, and I, after smacking Isaiah across the top of the head and threatening him with sudden, violent death, brought up the rear.

After a few steps, it was apparent that we should have thought things through. With each step, Grandpa expelled another fart bullet, and my mother, oblivious, kept on with her tour. The couple was holding it together as best they could, with only a few grins escaping the husband's iron-rigid face every now and then. My son, on the other hand, only made it to the first landing, where he literally collapsed with glee and had to be physically removed from the condo and deposited into the car where he could howl to his heart's delight. Oddly, this is one of Isaiah's favourite memories of his grandfather. I love that.

No matter how you look at it, farting is a natural part of life. it happens to you, it happens to me (rarely, if ever), and it happens to your friends and family. It is my hope that this blog will stimulate dinner conversations worldwide, bringing children and their parents closer together. Farting should be celebrated, perhaps with its own civic holiday. It unites us in our shame and brings us together as a society and a species. It even works as a sales pitch.

They bought the condo.

Thank You Video

This is Liz's thank you video for everyone who donated to the Canadian Cancer Society for her fundraiser. Although there is a reference to the AE Cross Colts at the end, this video is really meant for everyone whose generosity made this possible! The final total raised was $3592- thank you all!

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_WYoJ21wxk&feature=share

She Did It!

(Yet Another Update: The final donations were accepted last Friday and the totals are in.... Liz's hair cut raised $3592 for the Canadian Cancer Society, which is nearly $300 more than her previous total for 2007, and nearly $2600 higher than her goal donation! Please stay tuned for a thank you video from Sabrina, to be posted on Wednesday!)

(Update: Liz's total dollars raised for the Cancer Society were $1713 as of about 9 last night. As of just now when we happened to check the website: http://fundraiseforlife2012.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=492657&supid=355560506), the total his risen to $3069 in online donations and $419 in cash/cheques (including $6 from her big brother!). With a running total of $3488, your donations to the Canadian Cancer Society have now exceeded those from her last fundraiser in 2007 ($3298), and have destroyed her goal donation of $1000. I am proud and humbled to know all of you. On behalf of the Canadian Cancer Society, thank you so much for your support!)

This one is all about Liz.

She done good.

She just cut off 12 inches of her hair to donate to a company that makes wigs for kids and adults who are suffering from hair loss (*Pantene Beautiful Lengths- see the bottom of this post for donation info and instructions) and raised $1713 (and counting) for the Canadian Cancer Society in the process.

Sometimes I take her a little bit for granted, and I forget how insanely great she (and ALL my kids) really are.

She started joking about how short it was when the lady cut off all the pigtails (to preserve as much of her length as possible).

Then she sounded a little nervous as the remaining hair got shorter and shorter and shorter.

And finally, even with a gaggle of other teenagers looking on, she couldn't hold it in any more and covered her face and cried her gorgeous eyes out.

Up till that point, we thought she was being kind of goofy and facetious- maybe putting on a little show for her friends.

And it hit me.

Holy shit.

When you're a 15 year old girl, your hair is what you hide behind.

It hides your face on a bad acne day.

It hides your blush when the hot guy speaks to you.

It hides your embarrassment when your mom does something stupid.

And it was gone.

She wasn't joking. Up till that moment we hadn't realized what a sacrifice our brave, beautiful daughter was making.

And we are so proud of her. We are proudest of the moment when she cried.
Because that's when we knew how hard this was for her.

So wear your rockabilly 'do, Liz, and wear it hard.

Because you are more beautiful today with your few inches of spiky goodness than you have ever been.

Way to go, my girl. You rule!

*Pantene Beautiful Lengths
c/o Archway Marketing Services
P. O.Box 434
2110 Kipling Avenue
Etobicoke Station B, ON M9W 5L4
Minimum requirements: length – 8 inches. Visit www.beautifullengths.ca for hair guidelines and cutting instructions
Please send by Canada Post only