Enter the Navel Squid

"Do you want to see what my navel can do?"  We're in the grocery store.  Rissa is in full-on lunatic mode. She has been tying bunny ears on all the bags of our vegetables.  You know... so they'll be securely closed and it'll look like we have an entire cart full of transparent rabbits.  (I really shouldn't be surprised. I think it's genetic.  My father used to race down the aisles of grocery stores with the shopping cart, much to my mother's embarrassment.)

Apparently, Rissa's navel can climb buildings.

"What... it pops off your body, and all on its own...?"

"No!  Noooooo!  It has a Navel Squid, that can come out and use its suction cups you know, ON things."

"I think I need an example."

"Like this."  Rissa's lifts up her shirt to expose her belly button and then she violently assaults my side with her stomach, making a sucking noise deep in her throat.

"It can also push shopping carts..." She detaches from my side and 'sucks' onto the handle of the shopping cart, pushing it forward with her abdomen, a low squelching noise accompanying her movement.

On the way home, her navel squid was singing to me - an extended version of her usual navel trumpet voluntary...

Later... at bedtime.

She is doing the a capella version of Broadway Here I Come from the second Season of Smash (the best and worst in T.V.), desperately trying to figure out the percussive accompaniment at the foot of her bed. She is clapping and snapping and stomping her feet.  She should have been in bed at least 15 minutes ago.

"You need to get into bed.  It is bed time now.  Go to sleep."

Dejectedly, she climbs into her bed.  I make to turn the light off.

"Wait!  Wait!  I need to just... please may I just have one tiny spaz out?  Just a little one.  Like for 18 seconds or so?"

"Fine.  You may spaz out for 18 seconds."

She does her best Linda Blair impersonation for 18 seconds, then lies panting.

"You done?"

"International solvent!!"

"What?"

"International solvent in my nose to calm me down when I'm like this at bedtime!!  I'd be all like... (she moves her head frenetically to and fro...) WHOA... HEY!  WHOA... (She then mimes having something sprayed up her nose, her eyes roll back, her head falls to the side and she lets out a deep throaty snore.)  "See?  Like that."

"International solvent?  Do you know what a solvent* is?"

"Yeah, it's like in nose drops or eye drops."

"Saline solution?  Is that what you think you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Cause a solvent is generally something used to dissolve things, like to dissolve paint."

"Don't put that in my nose!"  She is grasping my hands in hers, now panicked.

"I wasn't going to!"

"You can't put that in my nose!  What if my brain got all..."

"You have to stop talking."

"I can't."

"You have to try."

"This towel is all wet from my hair, I'm going to die of hypothermia."

"You are not going to die of hypothermia..."

"What if the hypothermia..."

My words, now muffled, because I have buried my own head in the towel-covered pillow beside her, "Why won't you stop talking?"

"Because I love you?"

"I love you too.  Now stop talking."


*I had to look it up.  She was right.

sol·vent  (slvnt, sôl-)

adj.

1. Capable of meeting financial obligations.

2. Chemistry Capable of dissolving another substance.

n.

1. Chemistry

a. A substance in which another substance is dissolved, forming a solution.

b. A substance, usually a liquid, capable of dissolving another substance.

2. Something that solves or explains.

A solvent could totally be used to dissolve her insanity at bedtime.  It's like she's some sort of dada-esque savant.

How to create your very own Lord of the Flies...

Step 1: Rent a 70 foot long inflatable obstacle race with 10 foot slide exit.

Step 2: Let children know they can use it.

Step 3: Turn your back for the briefest of moments.

Beautiful bucolic fall day.  Sun shining, birds singing, crisp air.  As the inflatable sought form on the pavement, rosy-cheeked, tow-headed tots and youth lined up champing at the bit to have the okay to enter.  "Is it ready yet?"  "Can we go on now?"  "When can we use it?"  "This is for US?!?"

They marvelled at this amazing engineering feat.  "It's HUGE!!!"  "Look at the climbing wall!!"  "I'm going to spend the rest of my LIFE on this!"  We gave them rules:  Two people at a time on the slide.  Watch out for the little ones.  Have Fun.  We'll be watching from right over here.

Happy shrieks filled the air.  There was much giggling and skipping around to use the course. Then, the children devolved.  And by children, I mean the boys.  After 15 minutes,  boys between the ages of 10 and 13, chose the top of the slide as their 'castle,' refused to let any girls up and gleefully tossed smaller boys over the edge to their 'death.'  "HAH!  You're DEAD!  We just pushed you over the cliff!!"

 Lord of the Flies 1963 - directed by Peter Brook

15 minutes.  Civility was lost in 15 minutes.  Smiles and giggles gave way to the tears and hiccupping sobs of small-to-medium-sized children.  "They boys w... w... won't... let us up there!!"  "He p...p... pushed us over the top of the slide!"  "I don't w...w...want to worship the severed pig's head!"

We then had to install several young adults at the top of the slide to ensure that chaos would no longer reign.  15 minutes folks.  It wasn't hours, it wasn't days.  They weren't lost on an island.  They were within sight of ALL their parents.  It took 15 minutes.  Thank God I had the conch.

Have you experienced the Cat Olympics?

Last night.  High Jump.  Vault.  100 Metre Dash.  One of my favourites was the synchronized diving.  Watching cats accomplish such a feat - takes your breath away.  Literally.  It literally takes your breath away.  When cats land on you,  from a great height, in the middle of the night - the wind is knocked out of you.  Each of us with 15 lb cats on our diaphragms - couldn't even yell out in surprise - there was no air within us to yell.  The subsequent hurdles at 2:00 a.m. were spectacular.

I'm thinking it's the cooler fall temperatures. All three of them seem to have lost their minds.  The relay races  in the upstairs hallway alone have turned our house into the CN Freight Line.  Lola has been in training for track.  She is in compulsive fetching mode.  This week her toy of choice  is a makeup sponge Rissa has been using for face painting.  There were a bunch of them drying on the counter beside the sink.   Lola found them on the counter and began bringing them to me.  I hid them in a container on the counter, but she found that too.  Then I hid them in a bag on the kitchen table, which she also found.  At that point I figured she was just watching me hide them so I tossed her one.  She's been it ever since.  At what point can we begin to make money off this talent?

Lola, mid-fetch

Second week back - I don't think we'll make it.

The first week back to school was surprisingly easy.  Disproportionate levels of ease.  It was smoooooooth, it was cream cheese icing, it was James Brown.

This second week back to school is kicking our asses. We are so frickin' tired.  It feels like we have a new baby or puppy in the house.  We are devolving to amoeba state, fighting our urge to ooze across the floor in our exhaustion.

By middle of the first week back to school, Rissa had her first cold.  (Because children, not fleas, are the plague carriers. Smiling, tow-headed tots will end the world.  Take your vitamins.  Wash your hands.)  Rissa was sniffing and sneezing, blowing her nose, but as soon as I'd even glance sideways at her she'd be all, "I'b nod sick Mummy!  I'b nod!"  And yet, even with the cold, she was in fairly good spirits.

This week was her first week back to dancing full time.  Having decided to enter the competitive dance world this year, Rissa is dancing 3 nights a week and all day Saturday.  Last night my 13 year old daughter was at the dance studio until 9:45 p.m.  I  don't like to be out at 9:45 p.m. on a weeknight.  And here's the thing...  Sure, she's done dancing at 9:45 - but she's not home until 9:55, finishes showering by 10:05 - and even if she lies in bed, she's still winding down from the exercise at 10:30.  Teenagers need copious amounts of sleep.  Buckets, bins, quarries full of sleep.  It's been documented.  In MEDICAL JOURNALS.  She's running out of steam and it's only her first week back to dance.  And I know, I know, there are tonnes of kids out there who are up much later and are much more scheduled in their exctra-curricular time than Rissa is, but I also know they're not MY kid.  I know my kid.  David and I share these raised eyebrow silent communications:

This isn't looking good.

I know.

She's going to lose it.

I know.

What are we going to do?

See how this week goes, and then we rain fire down upon the dance studio?

How about we have a discussion with the studio?

And then we rain fire?

You can carry the BBQ lighter if you like.

All this to say that I may have to put on my Parent Pants next week.  With accompanying stern face.  Sure, Rissa might look like she's 17, but she ain't.  This morning she slept through her alarm.  Which wouldn't usually be cause for alarm, except that Rissa has NEVER slept through her alarm.  EVER.  She prides herself on getting up early. (I pride myself on having a daughter who can get herself up in the morning.)  And yeah, she wants to dance, but my job as a parent is to make sure that she's educated and challenged and happy, but most important healthy and can make it through her whole week.  Not just school, not just homework, not just dance, not just (what is now laughingly referred to as) down time but  EVERYTHING.  If having her over-scheduled, even doing something she loves to do, makes the rest of her week tank?  Something will have to give.  And it ain't gonna be her, I'll tell you that.

Put on your wetsuits ladies, we're going to a wedding!

Way, way, WAAAAAY back when - there were these things called girdles.  Everyone who was anyone wore one.  And you know why?  Because, back in the day, there were lots of form-fitting clothes.  And women wore them.  Because why?  Because of a girdle.  Today's girdles are Shapewear.  Spanx.  Basically they're wetsuits.  Add a snorkel and a mask and you're good to go swimming with dolphins.  They take about 5 minutes to get into, but blessedly, they can come off with a violent downward tearing motion in about 10 seconds.  After which, your body, which has been held in, squeezed and tightened into a flatter version of you, can relax.  Most women will then collapse onto the nearest bed, chair or piece of floor in front of them, emitting self-satisfied emancipated groans of pleasure, quoting Martin Luther King Jr.

I just wore a wet suit to a friend's wedding.  I struggled into one that hides the back fat and goes all the way down to mid thigh, smoothing everything pretty much everywhere.  What's the opposite of a snake working out of its skin?  Whatever that is, that's me putting shapewear on.  Undulating, doing my own version of Afro-Jazz, Belly Dance and Krump to fit me into something that is not the size of me. 

When you're in one of these one-piece suckers, there's this crotch flap... oh dear God... yes there is a CROTCH FLAP.  So that when you have to go to the bathroom, you don't have to strip off all your gear - you just reach down and... you know... part the flap and you pee.  I don't think you can ever take a crap while wearing one-piece shapewear.  I don't know how you could contort yourself on the toilet to reach behind and make sure the flap was open enough for...    Although, who is really going to feel comfortable enough to take a crap at their friend's wedding?  I think it's almost impossible to crap while wearing evening attire.

I digress.  Back to the peeing.  Even with this handy-dandy crotch flap, when I get ready to pee while wearing the wet suit, I have a wee panic.  (No pun intended.)  On account of the fact that even though I reach down and I part the flap, I can still FEEL the wetsuit on my hips, my thighs - so it FEELS like I'm still wearing underwear, which means that it feels like I'm going to pee my pants.  That's when, generally, I pull those flaps as wide apart as I can, turn my head to the side and just let loose.  But all the way through that pee?  I'm still nervous.  Then, when you're done peeing, you can't just let the flap close, 'cause then you'll have pee all over your flap, so you have to somehow, with ONE HAND, keep the flap open while you reach for the toilet paper to dry yourself.  Of course the smart girls probably gather the toilet paper before the peeing begins, but even so, you still can't really have it in your hand, ready and waiting, because then you'd pee on it.  After all of the flap opening, spreading and wiping, then flushing, you finally get yourself together and you smooth your skirt down and you overly wash your hands and leave the bathroom. 

Then when you return to the wedding reception, your spouse usually asks, "What took you so long?"

Banned from Google.

Twice last summer, I woke myself by biting my tongue in my sleep.  Really hard. Lots of blood, can't-chew-your-food-the-next-day, hard.  So, like any modern gal, I Googled it.  Type 'biting tongue in sleep' into Google and the next thing you know, you've got epilepsy.  And then you start reading about all the symptoms of epilepsy and it turns out you have more than one symptom!  (It's akin to being a first year Psych student when you think you have every mental disorder in the book.)  That then sends you on a quick trip down hypochondriac lane, which is NEVER good. You flit from page to page and feel the panic wash over you, start to calculate the cost of anti-seizure medicine when your spouse's drug plan no longer covers you in retirement - and that's when you have to watch cute animal videos to calm yourself down.  Or at least that's my cycle of crazy.

I have had a LOT of cycles of crazy.  Chronic pain sufferers usually do.  You go through that period (could be years) where you seem to be a walking, talking list of symptoms.  Trip after trip after trip to specialists and the ER, vague diagnoses, recommendations for pain management.  When you finally get yourself to the point where you can move beyond being defined by your physical state and answer "Fine, thanks for asking," when someone asks "How are you?" - you head into peri-menopause, which is a whole new level of crazy-making.  It's like some twisted cosmic joke.  And any new symptom that you now exhibit sends you on a mental health devolutionary trek into Google-land.

So for now, until it happens again, I am implementing the Ostrich Method.  I'm ignoring my seizure symptoms and all is good.  I'm on the "if this happens a third time I'll mention it" plan of symptom management.  Only David gets to hear the nitty-gritty about it.  But since having a heart attack for me has been ruled out (Cardiologist convinced it's not my heart - YAY? ), David is MUCH more relaxed and less apt to take me forcibly to the ER.  So far, I've only had 2 olfactory hallucinations and 2 tongue biting incidents.  If either one happens a third time, I have agreed that we're consulting a true doctor, not just Google docs. But until then, two times lucky, right?

It's official. I'm the adult.

Courting trouble

When I was younger, I did things...  I courted trouble.  I was the brash girl with the great rack who wasn't afraid to use words or breasts to my advantage.  Back in the day, I faked my Driver's License with green liquid paper, a fine-tipped pen and a steady hand.  I shop-lifted bad romance novels and inhaled Clove cigarettes.  I made bad choices, I took a walk, if not on the wild side, definitely adjacent to it.  But I never got caught.  'Cause I was a girl and I was sneaky.

Boys?  Aren't generally as sneaky.  And adolescent boys?  Aren't really forward thinkers. Which is why David and I pretty much caught the kid red-handed.  Actually white handed - because he still had the white spray paint on his hands, even though he tried to hide it.  We also had him trapped inside the skateboard park.  Kids? If you're going to deface public property?  Probably best not to do it in an enclosed space with one gate and a high chain link fence around it where two adults can block your only exit.

We could have let him be.  Could have turned that blind eye.  We started to walk past, then my head fell when my social conscience kicked in.  I could see the word that he'd scrawled on the ramp...

'Fucked' - not terribly original - the 'd' started out as a 'b' - poor kid was probably dyslexic.  If this were a park where everyone tagged the ramps - where there were broken bottles and drug dealers, or I guess, more accurately, if it wasn't part of a park that lots of little kids walked through, where they didn't watch the older kids doing their tricks on their skateboards, I probably wouldn't have called him on it. I could've easily gone the "not my problem" route.

The kid, an awkward guy, probably 11 years old, a little extra weight around his middle, wearing a baseball cap and a jersey from a sports team, was still at the edge of fence, behind the half pipe, disposing of his spray can when we approached the park.  He panicked as he saw me walking towards the fence, reaching for his bike which had been left inside the fence.  David imposingly blocked the gate, all six feet of him true adult menace.  The kid looked like he was going to crap his pants.

"Dude.  Is that the best you can do?" I said.

"What?  No, that wasn't me.  I didn't..."

"Aw hon.  We saw you do it.   We saw you from the road and then we watched you ditch the can to the side there.  Why don't you go pick it up?"

Red-faced, this Campbell's-Soup kid trundled to the side and picked up the spray can.

"It wasn't me..."  He wiped at his hands, probably still feeling the paint on them.

"Yeah... it was.  Let me ask you.  Was 'Fucked' the best you could do?  Seriously?  'Fucked?' This is what you chose to leave behind?  Dude.  Kids come here.  Little kids.  Learning to read little kids who like to watch the big kids skate. What about when they ask their parents, "What does that spell?"  What about when they try to sound it out?"

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't be sorry, " I said.  "Make better choices."

"I just wanted..."  he began.

"Just wanted what?"

"I just wanted to know what it felt like to..."

"To what?"

"To do it."

My heart broke a little right then.  God, I could see this kid at 12 just wanting to know what smoking felt like and at 14 wanting to know what beer felt like...  Trying to be the bad kid so that he could have something to brag about.  He was nearly in tears.

"How 'bout this?  How about the next time you get this urge - instead of defacing something - instead of writing 'fucked,' instead of that..."  I grasped for a concept - what could I say to this kid?  "How 'bout... you make art?  I swear to God, if you had been spray painting a mural here, something that had artistic worth, I would have given you props for doing it.  I would have come up and told you how great your graffiti was." He hung his head.

David and I left the fenced area.

"Are you going to... to tell anyone?"  He called out to us.

We turned around.  The kid was holding onto his bike handlebars like they were the only thing keeping him upright.  Who would I tell?  What was I going to do?  Have David lock the kid in the skateboard park while I ran downtown to grab the police?  I figured the terror from having strangers call him on it might be enough for today.  "Nope.  We're not going to tell anyone."  We took a few steps away.  Then I yelled back at him, over my shoulder.   "MAKE BETTER CHOICES!"