R'UH R'OH!! I'm behaving inappropriately... AGAIN.

I'm screwed.  My new crush is totally inappropriate on at least 2 levels (there might be more).

1. He's an 18 year old boy.
   
   *face palm*
   
   (But really, if you think about it - this isn't as bad as when I had a crush on Taylor Hanson when he was 16, because at least this kid is technically LEGAL.)
2. He bears more than a passing resemblance to my daughter's 13 year old boyfriend.  And that, my friends, makes me a perv AND a bad Mom.
   
   *face palm*

I recently heard him interviewed on a rebroadcast of yesterday's Q with Jian Ghomeshi.  This 18 year old was so freaking well-spoken that I actually got turned on listening to him. (Quick!  Hit the listen button on the Q page right now before you even scroll down - experience what I initially experienced while driving home last night .) The fact that's he's adorable and articulate??  I was already in the midst of indecent day dreams about the kid WHILE DRIVING HOME.  Eloquence is my crack.  That doesn't sound right.  Eloquence is like crack to me.  Someone who can turn a phrase with confidence?  sigh. 

But then I got home and Googled the kid  and he looks like this:

Jan Lisiecki.

I mean LOOK at him.  Just LOOK at him.  I want to pick him up and squidge him!  PLUS, in addition to being my latest skinny blonde boy crush (young Leonardo DiCaprio, young Taylor Hanson, young Ilia Kulik), he's this astoundingly fantastic pianist.  I listened to him play two Chopin Etudes and got positively light-headed.  Then I might have watched a video of him playing and of course had to extrapolate about how all that intensity and manual dexterity would make for some pretty spectacular fireworks in a more intimate arena... Hold on... wait a second... I just need another second here...

NO!!!!!!

Bad Heather.  Very bad Heather.   But I mean, come on, LOOK AT HIM!!!

It's a Thanksgiving Miracle!!

"OH!!!"

"What?" asks David.

"OH MY GOD!!!"

"What?!?  What is it?" David now sounds a bit panicked.

"Mummy, you're scaring him," says Rissa.

"IT'S A MIRACLE!!!  IT'S A THANKSGIVING MIRACLE!!!"  I'm standing in Rissa's doorway.  My shock is palpable.  I've never actually seen this - not while it was actually happening - not in my entire life.  I'm feeling a little swoony.

"SHE'S MAKING HER BED!!!  RIGHT NOW!!"

"OH MY GOD!!!!"

"I KNOW!!!!"

"You told me to make my bed last night," says Rissa rolling her eyes.

"Yes, but I tell you to make your bed EVERY NIGHT.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you."  I kneel in the doorway, looking up to the heavens to whichever deities made this possible, before rushing in and squeezing her in my proudest maternal hug.  "This means you actually LISTENED to me."

How long does it take to become ambidextrous?

It hurts when I brush my teeth.  My SUPER SPINATUS (Rotator Cuff) has betrayed me.  I'm not brushing my teeth particularly violently or anything.  I think it's just those wee little movements at that particular angle.  I start the day off wincing.  And what's really depressing is that it's not from having had twisty-bouncy sex the night before. 'Cause that kind of wincing is always accompanied by that satisfied smirk on your face.  You forgive the pain, because what went on before, was so freaking great.

I've decided that I need to stop using my right arm and become proficient with my left.  How long do you figure it will take?  Instinctively I high five people or reach for things or lean on that arm, so I need to abandon it, strap it down and begin using the other one.  I tried brushing my teeth with my left hand this morning and it didn't go well.  Water and toothpaste everywhere.  My spaz factor was at 11.  I wounded my gums.

I've got some great ambidextrous inspirations: Michelangelo, Einstein, Tesla, Leonardo da Vinci.  Very arty and sciency dudes.  And I'm not 100% sure, but if Escher wanted to his ability kept secret, he shouldn't have given us things like this:

M.C. Escher 1948

Plus?  I'm pretty sure that I could become a superhero if I were ambidextrous.  Less than 1% of the population is ambidextrous - which if we had accurate statistics on superheroes would probably reflect EXACTLY the same percentage!!  Or is that super models?  Me becoming a super model would take a bit more time and money I'm thinking.  The recuperation time alone from adding extra 3 inches to my torso and legs would be at least a couple of months.   Probably not as much fun as being a super hero either.  But step one is definitely the ambidextrous thing, regardless.  Which, seeing as I've already achieved mad touch typing skills, I'm well on my way!

Warming up before the bouncy-bouncy...

WARNING: This post is about sex

I never thought there would come a day where I would have to stretch before having sex.  Honest to God, it's not like we're particularly athletic about it.  I'm not doing a handstand against the wall or anything.  We're not suspended from a chandelier.  I'm just lying on my back with my legs in the air - you know propped open for... ahem... action. (bown-wown-chicka-wown-wown)

I think I'm in one position too long.  I remember those days when you'd get so het up that the barest of touches could set you off.  None of this 15 - 20 minutes before the big finale.  That's why my poor arthritic hips give me grief. The day after sex, I feel like I'm 70.  My frickin' joints are shot to hell - it's what comes of nearly a decade of gymnastics.

Thing is?  When the urge hits - you want to go with it, you want to let it happen.  Nothing ruins a good frisson of sexual tension like stopping to stretch out your quads and triceps (you gotta stretch the triceps too - you know for when you're holding onto the headboard too tight). 

"Do you want to... waggle of eyebrows... STRETCH?"

"Oh baby, I'll STRETCH with you.  You just get down here and we'll do that partner GROIN STRETCH..."

We'll strip seductively, NOT getting caught up in any of our clothing as it comes off, because my 'go-to' if I ever get stuck in my sweater, is to do a clown routine which generally shifts the mood from sex to slapstick.  No longer aroused, we are now amused, and crossing back over that particular divide takes work.  When you find yourself giggling madly after sex, it's incredibly therapeutic, but it really puts the kibosh on the kink in the early stages.

In the early stages, you can't get too distracticated.  "Oooooh, look, something shiny!!"  Gone are the days where it's Wham Bam Thank You (insert appropriate pronoun).  If you start to get tingly, you've got to jump onto that horse and ride it into Coitus Land, do not stop, do not wash that last plate in the sink - GO HAVE SEX!  You want to be in good shape, ALL THE TIME.  So that, at a moment's notice, if your partner gives you the come hither look, you can drop everything, take those stairs 2 at a time up to the bedroom, abandon civility and get down to it. 

Basically, Adult Yoga = Flexible Sex.  It's a win-win.  And not only will the sex be better, but you're going to be in better shape so you'll be able to do other activities.  Though let's face it, being an octagenarian who can do reverse cowgirl and survive?  Great incentive.

I don't remember buying this hairsuit.

WARNING:  Adult language in this post

I never used to be this hairy.  I mean sure, I had the pubes, I had the pits - I shaved - below the knee - because my mother had warned me against above the knee shaving as if it could end civilization as we know it. Taking my hands in hers, eyes so serious, "You don't want to have stubbly knees Heather." 

I noticed my first chin hair when I was in high school.  I remember being in typing class - in between time trials - and feeling the prickliness of that single hair, underneath my chin - embedded, it seemed, in my chin scar.  The scar was the result of a childhood injury with a springy horse at the playground when I was two, a good place to have one's first scar - conveniently obscured underneath the shelf of your jawbone.

I didn't even really notice the other hairy bits emerging until my Dad made primate noises when I appeared in my bathing suit in my late teens.    "OOOOH!  OOH!  OOH!"  Deep throaty noises to trumpet the arrival of longer and darker hair on the backs of my thighs.  Back of your thigh hair is impossible to really pay attention to unless you spend a lot of time feeling yourself up or trying to wrap your own legs around your head.  So I blithely went around for years, unaware of my Zorba-esque rear view.  I was befuddled.  I knew about the "if you shave it will come back darker and hairier" threat, but I hadn't shaved there!  Not since the first time when I was 11 and hadn't yet been advised against such insanity.  The lag time was incredible!  That back of my thigh hair was what prompted the  purchase of my first epilady to tear the offending colour and texture off those legs.

That epilady is now used to tear hair from the backs of my thighs, the fronts of my thighs, my inner thighs, my bikini line, the tops of my feet - HOLY FUCK!  I'VE BECOME A FREAKING HOBBIT!!! - the tops of my big toes.  It'd be used on my neck and my chin hairs if I weren't terrified that I might catch the not-quite-as-taut-as-it-used-to-be neck flesh in it's tweezing clutches.  The chicken skin behind my knees has suffered from that mistake and it hurts like fuck.

The denuding never happens as often as it should, usually before I know David and I will have sex or I'm having my physical or a massage.  Which is why it generally ends up being a rushed affair with imperfect results.  Days later, I'll be having that last nude before-bed-pee and look down and notice entire swaths of hair that I had missed.  The next quarter of an hour is spent with me shivering on the toilet, obsessively ripping the offending hairs from my person.

One day.  One day I shall have unlimited wealth and I shall have a team of strong young men (all ex-Olympic swimmers) to take care of my hair... scratch that.  They'd have to see me all hairy and orangutan-like.  Not going to happen.  Better to have the Eastern European Aesthetician wax me or - I'll save up the big bucks and have laser hair removal.  And then I will have that team of strong young men massage my smooth and hairless thighs - front and back and as far up the inside as I can, before it costs the extra bucks.

Anyone else's kid do this?

"If you had a fake laugh what would it be?"  Rissa asks as we're walking to her dance studio. (We have one car, David takes it to school, if David's late at work, we have to figure transportation shit out.  Rissa opted for the walking option instead of biking.  This happened half way through our 15 minute walk.)

"Beg your pardon?"

"We all need a fake laugh!  You know, if you had to pretend that you thought something was funny, when you didn't really think it was funny - what kind of laugh would you have?  Would it be... you know...  (she trills) "Heee-heeee-heeee-heeee-heeee...  or... (she brays)  "AW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW-HAW..." or  (she snorts) "Giggle-giggle-snort-giggle..." or (she blarts) "Huh! HUUUUUUHH!  Huh-huh-huh..." or... (she machine guns) "Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh..."

I shoot her a look.

"My brain just thinks of these things. Sometimes I even confuse myself.   I'm saying this because so and so's brother laughed and I honestly thought it was a fake laugh.  I laughed because his laugh was so ridiculous. And that got me to thinking.  You have to have a fake laugh.  Just in case.  You know, for emergencies."

"I'd have to go for the Katharine Hepburn/Philadelphia Story  laugh."

She looked dumbfounded.  Dear GOD, she didn't know who Katharine Hepburn was.  I had failed her as a parent.  She'd never seen The Philadelphia Story.  She didn't understand the brilliance of casting Cary Grant, Jimmy Steward and Katharine Hepburn as the three corners in a near-perfect screwball comedy triangle.   It was then I made a solemn vow to educate her, as we should all educate our children in classic cinema - we shall batten down the hatches and make a weekend of it.

I'm too old for this S*&t!

 

I get Detective Murtaugh now.  I couldn't before, but now that I'm 45, I completely understand him.  Plus, I think he must have been some kind of super human.  How could he possibly do all he did with Martin Riggs, a man a good 15 years his junior, and not DIE from it?   How did he not actually DIE?   I can't even pull an all-nighter - without teetering on death.  I used to have an amazing bounce back rate... when I was 22.  Cripes, last night I stayed up until 11:30 p.m. and when I dragged my sorry ass out of bed at 7:25 this morning, I thought I might die.  Stuck in the middle of a sleep cycle, my brain needed a major reboot.

Now, I'm looking for my quick fix.  The bag of real coffee in the cupboard is calling to me.  Its siren voice had me stumbling towards it, before I remembered that caffeine is terrible for peri-menopausal women and I don't want to fall into its deliciously invigorating trap.  'Cept it'd be so much easier than coming out of this on my own.

I'm rehearsing for a play.  I've had to beg the other production members to reschedule end times of rehearsals - that is how pathetic I am.   "I can barely function after 9:00 p.m. Please, I am begging you, can we start at 7:00 p.m. and just go to 10:00?!?  PLEASE?"  And even now, if you were to take pictures of me during the last 45 minutes of rehearsal, you would find me in various states of yawn.

I used to laugh at my Mom when she would try to read a book in her Lazy-Boy.  It seemed like all she had to do was lift the book and crack its spine  before she was zonko.

"Do you want me to just wave it over your head Mom?  Might accomplish the same thing."

"You watch it!  This'll come back to bite you!"

Last night?  As I was struggling to study my lines?  The seconds between blinks grew longer and longer until I dropped the play on my face. ON MY FREAKING FACE!!!  Yet another thing I can't do in bed like I used to!

IT'S OCTOBER 1ST!!!!

Yellls Rissa as she flops down beside me in bed this morning.  She is VERY excited.

I stifle a yawn, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

"October 1st, huh?"

"YES!!!"

"And October is a good month?"

"It's the BEST month!!!  First off, there's TURKEY DAY (Canadian Thanksgiving is coming up in approx 12 days).  Then, there's the day AFTER Turkey Day where you get to make TURKEY SANDWICHES!!  Then the new book in the Divergent series - ALLEGIANT - comes out!!  Then there is the DANCE STUDIO HALLOWEEN PARTY and then... (she can barely contain herself) ...

IT'S HALLOWEEN!!!!

She leaps out of bed, skipping and singing, continuing her morning.

I turn to David.  "October is VERY exciting!"

"Apparently."

I think I might have to report my cat to Interpol...

Lola is a cat burglar. I mean literally. Our smallest black cat... burgles. She has a penchant for jewelry.  She must be part magpie. Which is a cute little quirk generally, except that a while back she stole one of my most adored pieces of jewelery - a pendant from my friend Shannon. I'm pretty sure Lola's stashed it in her secret cat cache of stolen goods. I'm hoping I'll be able to find it before she puts it on the black market.

And because she, like the other cats in the house, can't actually talk, she won't tell me where this secret cache is.  I've been looking under beds and dressers, carpets.  I've pleaded with her, tears have been shed, but to no avail.

Thing is?  This particular piece of jewelery is one of the last presents that my friend Shan gave to me before she died. I've been using it as a talisman - a memento amicus as it were. I would feel the roundness of the blown glass against my throat and it would calm me, I'd feel better, feel closer to her, the pain would disperse just that little bit. And you need that when you've lost a friend so young in life.  She was only 41. I desperately needed that object I could palm in my hand and think She touched this too.  She chose this with love.

I keep thinking, Maybe it'll be here, in the bottom of this bag. I'll step on something under a rug and my heart will leap, Is this it?? And it never is. And it's now been months and when I reach for it in my jewelery box there are mornings I'm near tears with its loss.

So I'm going to find another one; or have it made... whatever the case, I will have a pendant of the same shape, size and colour and I will imbue it with all my best memories of her. It is, after all, just an object. Shannon was not that piece of turquoise and lavender glass. But in my mind somehow, this object had become that tie to her. My attempts to describe her would probably sound corny and clichéd.  But those clichés become what they are because there is that truth in them, that truth to them.

Shannon was a fierce friend. Shannon's smile could power the Eastern Seaboard in a blackout. Shannon had this ridiculous vaudeville-esque finger magic trick, that wasn't her trick at all, but rather her version of her father's trick, that always made me laugh. Shannon would sing to you because the lyrics of that particular song were perfect for the moment and would bring you solace. I haven't beatified her in death. I didn't have to. She was pretty damned perfect on her own. Which is why instead of bemoaning my lost tie to her, I'm making another one that I can hold and take comfort in. And if that disappears into the ether, I'll create another. Its tangible weight in my hand will give me strength. Just as she did.

Love you Shan.

ps. How bad days become brilliant...

I just ate my own weight in waffles.

Behold the waffle iron!

The best laid plans and all that...  It's the pumpkin's fault.  I had 3/4 of a can of leftover pumpkin in the fridge that I had to use up before it turned into a science experiment.  You know the kind of experiments I'm talking about...   Where a day in the not-so-distance future you think, Hey, I know!  I have leftover pumpkin that I can use for this recipe of cake/muffins/waffles and then you open the container and you have to swallow that little bit of mouth vomit when you're met by green and white pillows of mouldy-mould.

Making waffles is an adventure at the best of times, but for me, first thing in the morning, it takes every single last little bit of my focus.  Turns out, I'm not so good at math first thing in the morning.  And seeing as I decided that I would double the batch of waffle batter to use up more of the pumpkin, I found myself having to do a lot of fractional math... first thing in the morning.

Doubling  1 3/4 cups of milk shouldn't cause a person this much distress.

Okay... 1 and 3/4 doubled is...  nnnnnnnope, AIN'T gonna happen.  

I'll try it this way:  1 doubled is 2.    YAY!  We have 2!   

3/4 doubled is 1.5.  We have 1.5.  

2 + 1.5 = 3.5 cups.  3.5 cups?  That sounds like a lot of milk.   Better double check.

1+1=2  

3/4 +3/4 = 1 1/2

2 + 3.5= 5.5?!?  What the???  Where did the 3.5 come from?  (Flour coated fingers rub my furrowed brow.)  AHHHHH!  First total.  We're good.  3.5

***

4 teaspoons of baking powder

Which means it's really 8 teaspoons.  That's too many teaspoons - there's no possible way I can keep track of 8 teaspoons. Time for conversions.

4 teaspoons is 1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon.

Doubled = 2 tablespoons + 2 teaspoons!!

A recipe that should take about 5 minutes to whip together, takes me, first thing in the morning, when doing fractional math, at least 15 minutes.  (Note to self - write the double batch amount in the margin next time.)  But once the batter was mixed, we were good to go.  It seemed a little extra thick (must be all those ground pecans in the pumpkin pecan waffles), but waffle number one went on the waffle iron.  When the "I'm DONE" beep sounded, I pried the waffle from the iron's grip.  I'm pretty sure that this single waffle weighed 12 lbs.  David ate that one.

"Wow.  This is a WAFFLE!!!"  He growled masculinely for effect.  "WAFFFLE!!!  No one mess with me today, I'm full of WAFFLE!!!"

I added a little more milk.  Maybe it should have been 5.5 cups of liquid.  I still had to smooth out the batter on the iron with an extra spoon, pat it down, convince it to be smaller.  After Rissa said she didn't need a second waffle, I knew that these waffles might be the equivalent to Arctic Bannock.  I tried to the thin the batter out some more and continued to cook.  Eventually, I had a stack of waffles beside the iron, precariously perched ... the Leaning Tower of Waffles as it were.

Moments before physics kicked in.

I turned my back to put something in the fridge and I heard a somewhat moist, heated thud.  Half the waffles had disappeared. What the?  DAMN IT!    I knew I should have moved them!  I looked beside the stove.  There in our extra plastic bag stash - easily a dozen suicidal waffles.

Their own weight was too much for them.  My haphazard placement of the stack could not have been countered - I'd begun my own elaborate Waffle Jenga game and had lost.  Thankfully they fell into the extra plastic bag stash - (the top bags, I quickly calculated, had been placed just the day before - thank God) , not on the floor and could be salvaged.  We now have 126 waffles in our freezer in aluminum foil covered batches of 3 so the next time I get the bright idea to make waffles first thing in the morning we have 42 opportunities to eat them.    Lesson Learned:  Make waffles the night before.

Just shoot me now... still...

Instead of writing an entirely new post about the perils of peri-menopause and its attending hot flashes from hell, I'm reposting this, on account of the fact that I'm pretty sure I almost died last night and can't write anything new today...

Is it hot in here?

I awoke in the midst of another horrific hot flash.  Stumbling and growling all the way down the stairs - David and Rissa's eyes got really big as I stomped my way into the kitchen. I was fanning my face with my hands and flapping my arms to get air into my armpits.

"I'm not even going to ask," I said.

"If it's hot in here?" David replied.

"Yes, I'm not asking, because..."

"It's not hot," Rissa cheerfully piped up.  "It's just you."

"Awesome!  That is just freaking AWESOME!!!"  I open the freezer and grab a velcro ice pack and strap it around my neck.

"Interesting look," said David, ignoring the laser beams coming out of my eyes.  He then leaned in to whisper at my ear, "Are you going for an auto-erotic asphyxiation type look?"  I growled at him.

"I am only  44 years old," I griped, as I attempted to start my coffee.  "44 YEARS OLD!!!  My Mom had hot flashes until she was 60!!!  You could have to live with THIS (I point violently to myself, drawing a wide, erratic circle around my head) for another SIXTEEN years!!!"  I grab the soy milk and my hazelnut flavouring.  The mug is warm.  "THIS MUG IS TOO WARM TO HOLD!!!"

Rissa then giggled, which let me know that David must have done something behind my back.   
"WHAT???  What did he do?  Did he just make a 'she's crazy' gesture?!?"

"Nope, not at all.  Un-unh.  Nope."  Both of them looked all sweet and innocent.  David had the decency to look chagrined before admitting "I just raised my eyebrows like this."  (He demonstrated.)   It's the 'Oh boy, fasten your seatbelts' look.  Even though I really, really wanted to... I did not bludgeon him.

"How about I make you an iced capp?  Would that help?"  He moved swiftly out of my arm's reach.

"Maybe," I pouted.  Then I realized what he was offering.  "Yes please.  (sigh)  David, you just don't understand.  I can't do this to you guys for another 16 years.  You'll lose your minds.  You can't be walking on eggshells all that time.  That's not fair to you!  I am considering hormone replacement.  THIS (again another  finger circling my skull for emphasis), is making me consider HRT!!!  It's not supposed cause as much cancer now, but I can't be on hormone replacement for SIXTEEN years!  That's just asking for bad shit to happen to my body!!!  I have enough bad shit happening to my body already!!"

It was at that point that Rissa led me to the kitchen table, sat me down and patted me on my arm in a gesture of placation.  David then put the iced capp into my hand.  It was cool and delicious and took my mind off the volcano in my torso.

What if I commit major crimes before I actually make it to Menopause?  This is only PERI-Meonopause - and already I'm pretty much out of my mind.  Can I make it through another SIXTEEN years?  And more importantly, will I be able to use it as an excuse in court?  Like, for when I murder someone when they look at me funny or drive slowly in front of me or chew with their mouths open?!?   The only upside to jail is that the metal bars will proabably be cool when I bang my head on them.

I want to... but I can't!

I don't know if it's ALL nature vs nurture or vice versa.  But I DO know that perfectionism is genetic.  Rissa got her perfectionist streak directly from her father's side of the family...  from her paternal grandmother to her father to her.  From the ages of two to about seven, Rissa would melt down when she couldn't complete a task.  She was unwilling to fail at anything.  If she couldn't get it on the first try, that child imploded. She wasn't much of a tantrum thrower, but man that kid could simply refuse to communicate.  She would hide behind chairs, tables, simply close her eyes to shut you out.  The stubborn crossing of the arms stance was a staple reaction for my kid. 

I remember her, age four, at AirZone.  AirZone was one of those party places with jumpy castles, big slides and obstacle courses.  Rissa was determined to go down the 20 foot slide.  DETERMINED.  It was a big frickin' slide.   She got all excited and climbed to the top of that monster slide.  Then she looked down the slide and understandably panicked.  It was a LONG way down.  She sat at the top of that slide for a good 15 minutes, letting child after child after child in front of her.

"Rissa sweetie, you don't have to go down honey.  Just climb down the ladder.  It's okay hon."

"NOOOOOOO!"

"Sweetie, it's okay.  Just climb down the ladder..."

"No Mummy!  NOOOOOOOO!"

I couldn't take it any more.  My heart was about to burst.  There was my little girl sitting up at the top of that slide quietly sobbing, mumbling to herself like some some sort of JK schizophrenic.  I climbed up and went down with her - even though it was against the rules.  The minute we reached the bottom, she climbed up again to the top, still determined that she would go down on her own.

"Sweetie, you don't have to do this.  This is a big kids' slide..."

"Mummy I want to!"

"Then just go ahead and do it!"

"I want to!"

"You can do it!"  I put on my best RAH! RAH! voice.

"I want to... "

"You can..."

"I want to... BUT I CAN'T!!!!!"

There might as well have been a pit of rabid, slathering Hounds of Hell, covered in barbed wire at the bottom of that slide, instead of a safe, bouncy landing - she was petrified.  Desperate to go down, but terrified of the drop.  Other parents in the joint looking at me like I'm torturing my kid.  Don't look at me!  I don't need her to go down the slide!  This is ALL her.  I am just a terrified bystander.

45 minutes we waited it out.  Her yelling occasionally from the top, me doing my best to keep my voice calm and give her support. The backs of my legs were bruised from where I had wedged them so firmly under my chair seat to stop me from leaping up to rescue her.  See, I'd said that I wouldn't come get her again.  I'd drawn the line in the sand.  Was it the wrong line in the sand?  Probably.  I should have probably climbed up again, hefted her under one arm and left the building, but for whatever reason, this rite of passage seemed to mean more to her than being the focus of attention for all the patrons of AirZone, so I was all in.

And sure enough after that 45 minutes and countless "I WANT TO... BUT I CAN'TS!!!", she went down.  ONCE.

"I'm so proud of you sweetie!  Good for you!!"  How was I supposed to  play this now?  Do I encourage a second trip down?  Do I just zip my lip?  Zipping the lip is never really my thing.  "Do you want to....?"  I left the end of the sentence hanging there, my tone ambiguous.

"No, Mummy.  I'm good.  I know I can do it now."  Then she ran off to be a four year old again.

Did you feel the earthquake?

8:02 a.m. Eastern Time.  I was dozing in bed, desperate to grab any extra resting time.  The smallest of shudders had me opening my eyes.  The bed was moving.  It stopped.  I must have been dreaming it.  (I was somewhat stoned on a cocktail of ibuprofen and acetaminophen - DAY 1 of my period.  I'd arisen at 6:30 and doped myself up as best as I could - building a chemical fortress against the cramping.)  The bed moved again, more violently, for a longer period of time.  What the...?  I sat up - ready to grab onto the bedside table lamp in case it crashed to the ground.  Was this the BIG ONE?

Then I saw her.  Minuit.  Our biggest and most irritable of cats.  She was on the bed.  Scratching behind her left ear.  Raccoon-like in size, when Minuit uses her full energy to scratch behind her ears, it can apparently be mistaken for an earthquake. Our fat cat has some incredibly powerful haunches.  She could double as the motor for one of those cheap motel vibrating beds.

I slumped back down onto my back.  I could maybe steal another 30 minutes of pseudo-sleep before having to get up and get ready for work.  If I did nothing more than brush my teeth and put deodorant on, I could maybe have 40 minutes. 

Knowing that I was awake, Minuit made her way up the bed... Doing her best Edward G. Robinson*  "Meah.... Meah...,"  she placed her front paws on my stomach and began to palpate, which this morning, with the strength of her considerable weight behind her?  Was the best ovarian massage that I've ever felt.  There are definite perks to having a fat cat.

*Minuit sounds exactly like Mel Blanc
doing an impersonation of Edward G. Robinson.
  At 2:17 into the clip you get the full effect.
Instead of "Yeah, Yeah" insert "Meah, Meah."

Co-Sleeping vs the World

Three days after she was born, Rissa came home from the hospital.  I was adamant that she sleep in her crib.  David was in a state of paternal panic.  "But she... How will we... What if she?"  Having spent the first three days after my c-section NOT sleeping in the hospital, I was nearly hysterical with exhaustion.  "I NEED to sleep.  I will not sleep if I'm worried I'm going to roll over on her.  Please, for the love of all things holy, PLEASE... LET... ME... SLEEP!"

Rissa slept in the crib...  Until 2:00 a.m., when David brought her into our bed, whereupon I nursed her and then she slept between us, each parent precariously perched on the side of the double bed, infant flat on her back in the middle, blissfully unaware.  Boom!  Pattern set.  Crib for naps and the first part of the night, parents' bed from the middle-of-the-night feeding on.  I'm sure that my mother was horrified, but it worked for us.

Full-time co-sleeping with the infant or even toddler version of Rissa wasn't practical.  Rissa is the most violent sleeper in the world.  She flails her limbs and has 22 elbows which connect with eye sockets, bridges of noses and kidneys.  Plus?  I've always been a selfish sleeper.  Even more so in those first couple of years of parenthood.  I jonesed for sleep.  I wanted time with David to snuggle, even if it wasn't for sex.  'Cause we all know that first year after the baby - is NOT about sex.  A little dirty spooning with one's spouse is a perk I was unwilling to give up.

Seems recently - a decade after I had to really worry about it with Rissa, there is a great hue and cry over Co-Sleeping or Bed-Sharing.   Even Maclean's did a huge cover story on it. It's this dirty little secret.  And we North Americans love our dirty little secrets don't we?  Sure, I will fully admit that until very recently, I thought that parents who slept with their 4, 5, and 10 year olds were out of their gourds.  But  that's because I was and am a selfish sleeper who wanted to have sex in my own bed and that greatly affected my feelings on co-sleeping.  PLUS?  North American society makes you feel like a parental pariah if you 'give in' to your kids. The online forums dedicated to parents asking when they should stop co-sleeping, how long to co-sleep, whether they should co-sleep are all based on societal and familial constraints that tell them they're doing something wrong.   But hey!  If it works for your family - if it means that you're not spending hours of negotiating or constantly getting up and down with your kids and you actually get some sleep?  YAY YOU!!  Congratulations!  You're coping!!  Better to be sane and cramped in your own bed than exhausted and sleep-deprived, I'm thinking.  The kid will not ask you to sleep with them when they head off to university.

North American Pediatric societies do their best to convince parents that co-sleeping is unsafe and preach that it increases the risk of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome (SIDS).  Here is a particularly lurid ad from Milwaukee's Department of Health.

It doesn't help new parents when studies such as the one released by the British Medical Journal in May of 2013 tell them that co-sleeping infants below the age of 3 months are FIVE TIMES as likely to suffer SIDS than non co-sleeping infants. "No really, go ahead and sleep with your baby, if you want to KILL it."

 

Thing is?  The North American 'norm' of infants sleeping in a separate crib ain't really the 'norm.'   Throughout the world, infants share their parents' beds, or are least within arms' reach, often for the first couple of years.  Yet now in North America, co-sleeping is the latest in divisive parenting practices.  God forbid that you admit that you co-sleep.  The raised eyebrows, the generational 'tut-tutting' with grandparents and older relatives.  "We NEVER slept with our kids..." "She won't be independent..." "You're not doing him any favours..." "You'll never be able to cut the apron strings..."

We North Americans are so frickin' sure of ourselves.  We're so much smarter than the rest of the world, except when we're not.    As middle-class North Americans living in houses where almost everyone has their own bedroom, we don't remember that most of the world doesn't have that luxury and yet they have somehow, miraculously, managed to raise independent and successful members of society.  With industrialization in first world countries, breastfeeding went out of vogue, it wasn't until the late 60s, early 70s that we clued in that, as mammals, perhaps our young might be better off if they were getting the nutrients that they were supposed to.  And breast milk?  It doesn't fill up that infant's tummy the way that formula does, hence they get hungrier through the night.  Hence more waking up, hence more opportunities for co-sleeping.  We're so worried about seeming 'civilized' that our children are expected to be self-sufficient, sleep through the night and generally silent from 3 months of age onward. 

New parents in North America are terrified of SIDS.  That fear, accompanied with articles throwing around percentages and the phrase FIVE TIMES AS LIKELY telling you that co-sleeping will KILL your baby -  are convincing parents that co-sleeping with an infant is wrong when most of the world is managing to do it just fine.  Strangely enough, these international co-sleepers don't have high SIDS rates and when they grow up aren't running around wetting themselves and unable to make decisions as adults. 

How 'bout this?  If you feel like co-sleeping and it works for your family,  embrace that decision.  Tell other people to mind their own frickin' business and that you're coping alright thanks.   A few caveats: Put your baby to sleep on their back.  Don't sleep with your infant on the sofa or in a waterbed.  Don't get drunk or consume drugs and then go to sleep with your infant.  Sleep in a big bed with lots of space for the 6 of you in it if you have an infant there with you.    This is your parenting journey - if you are happy with it, don't let anyone else tell you differently.

Here's some other reading just to really confuse the issues:

 

Why babies should never sleep alone: A review of the co-sleeping controversy in relation to SIDS,bedsharing and breast feeding by James McKenna Thomas McDade

SIDS and Other Sleep-Related Infant Deaths: Expansion of Recommendations for a Safe Infant Sleeping Environment

And that's how you have your car stolen...

Our car was stolen last night, right from our driveway.  The theiving bastards took it right from our freaking driveway!!!  Our driveway!!!  We were violated!!!  Except we weren't.  And it wasn't.  And they didn't.

I had driven the car to the theatre downtown for rehearsal and then walked home, having forgotten that I'd driven there.  But for that brief moment before I could tell David that I had taken it to the theatre and forgotten I had taken it - our car had been stolen.  That 15 seconds of panic was a helluva kickstart to our day, I'll tell you.

"I'm sorry!!"

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry!!!"

"It's okay, I'll call Shawn and tell him I'll be a few more minutes."  (David carpools with another dude named Shawn.)

"I'M SOOOOOOOOOO SORRY!!!!"  

"The PANIC is strong with this one."

Whereupon, he took my face in his hands.  "Heather.  Heather.  Look at me."

"I SUCK!"

"HEATHER.  IT.  IS. OKAY." 

The problem is, we live about a 6 minute walk from the theatre downtown.  Hence, I rarely drive down there. I usually walk.  I take pride in my walking.  I scoff at people who drive instead of walking the 6 minutes.  But last night I had a shitload of costumes I had to take in which I didn't want to carry over my arms as I walked, on account of my stupid Super Spinatus injury, so I drove.  And then I completely spaced out that I'd taken the car and blithely walked home at the end of the night.  My route home doesn't take me past our driveway, so not having the car parked in the driveway couldn't have even jogged my memory.  I was completely clueless.

Has it really come to this?  Am I now losing cars?  We're so screwed.  It's time for dementia testing.  Rule of thumb: If you forget where you put your car, that's forgetfulness.  If you forget what car does, that's dementia.  (pause)  Nope, we're good.

Good thing I never did crack!

Did you ever smell something SO GOOD that its presence within your nasal cavity brought you close to orgasm?  Something so delicious, that you clenched with everything inside you and had a full on frisson go down your spine, making you gasp?  That's me, walking past the open door of a bakery.  The smell of bread, or cinnamon buns or anything with gluten in it can almost get me off.

Restaurants, while you're waiting for your appetizers and main courses, will bring you a basket of fresh warm, saliva-inducing bread.  Bread is now, and has always been, my downfall.  I remember eating those buns that you could get from the deli department.  The ones in the bins - big fluffy buns with airy delicious wheaty centres.  I would just eat them with butter.  Nothing else.  No protein source anywhere close to the carbohydrate. Just pale yellow, delicious butter.  Wolfing them down, already thinking about the second one before I had finished the first one.  Pasta was the same.  I could be half way finished with a bowl of spaghetti and jonesing for the second helping.

Trouble was/is I'm hypoglycemic and those sorts of carbohydrates metabolize into sugar faster than you can say "Oh God, Oh GOD - I want to hump this bread!"  I basically get high off simple carbohydrates.  Have a wheaty product with icing, like say, a cake, and you might as well roll me into rehab.  At my office there is leftover cake from a weekend event.  Approximately 18 pieces of cake slathered in icing remain in the box adjacent to our coffee area.  I walk by this box at least a half dozen times in a day.  It takes every ounce of self-control and Tourettes-like verbalization to stop myself.  "Don't do it!  DOOOOOOON'T!  Bad!  Very Bad! SUGAR!!! BAD!!!"  I may have, uh... devoured the icing off a side piece on Monday and then sat under my desk to wait for the effects to pass.  The box needs to disappear.

Nervous Nelly.

I was joking around.  Throwing out the one-liners.  Getting people to relax.  Chit-chatting.  Looking all unconcerned and unaffected by the process.  Slipped on my kick-ass heels and crossed my ankles delicately, doing my best to channel Julie London.

Then, as I walked in front of the auditioning panel, I felt those same ankles tremble. My feet, in those kick-ass heels caught the contagion.  Then my knees - leaving me feeling like I might have been on boat for too long.  Listening to the introductory chord of the song, my mouth opened, the nerves that had been pooling in my stomach traveled up my trachea and blarrrted from my throat.  Breathless, unsupported... trembly.  My right hand moved from my side and pushed against my diaphragm to add some manual strength.

Ann-Margret from her 1966 USO tour to Vietnam

I excel at public speaking.  I can get up in front of a room, nay a theatre, an arena full of strangers and extemporize.  I'm completely fine, I'm one of the few people in the world who LIKES public speaking.   I enjoy cracking wise - love to get people to relax with laughter.  Public speaking is my sweet spot.  Acting auditons are a breeze.

Me, standing in front of a panel of people prepping for a singing audition?  I freak the fuck out.  My body betrays me, I can't support my tone.  The song which had power and control at home in front of my daughter and husband - becomes this mediocre thing.  In my ears it becomes a sharing of 'meh' with people.  Leaving me wondering, is that note flat or sharp?  Second-guessing each breath, each belt, each tone.

Later, when I'd had a chance to calm down, to get rid of my vocal heebie-jeebies, they tested my range.  No longer nervous, I could hit that out of the park.  Now that I'm older, my used-to-be lyric soprano has tempered and I can hit low notes, nice chesty notes, my own version of Nina Simone notes.   I've still got some range at the top.  My break isn't too defined.  I can belt the hell out a song when I'm not nervous.  I had to be taught to sing softly - I Ethel Mermaned my way through singing when I was young.   Great big voice, no control.  Took me years to sing pianissimo. 

I have been auditioning for 34 freaking years.  Since I was 11.  At what point in a performer's career do the nerves disappear?  At what point is my body going to believe in me?

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!"