how to raise a diva

A beautiful child is ahead of me in line at the Big Box store. She is approximately 7 years of age, dark hair, striking blue eyes. Freaking adorable. I find myself inclined to smile simply because of her incandescent beauty. And then I hear her scream/whine this:

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"  

The tone immediately pulls back my parental shoulders and raises my "Mummy" eyebrows. I take a calming breath.

Don't say anything Heather. Don't say ANY. THING. Not your kid. She is NOT your kid. Maybe the adult will parent-up. 

I wait patiently. The dad has yet to reply.

He's going to make a good choice. He's got this.

"But sweetie you already have one Kinder egg."

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"

"Now sweetie, what did I just say?"

"I want TWO Kinder eggs!!!"

"Well, you'll have to ask your mother..."

She'll have to...? Did that motherfucker just do what I thought he did? Did he just fucking pass THE PARENTAL BUCK?!? 

"Mummy!  MUMMY!!!"

"What is it sweetie?"

In a slightly less whiny tone. "I want TWO Kinder eggs." No 'please,'  no 'May I have?" 

"You already have a Kinder egg."

"But. I. WANT. TWO!!!!"

I make eye contact with another parent waiting in the line next to mine. We are 1980s Cold War spies. We give each other almost imperceptible head shakes. Present etiquette restricts our ability to act. As long as those parents are not physically or verbally abusing that child in front of us we keep our mouths shut.

"But you already have one sweetie."  

The mother is calm. She won't cave.

"But I want TWO!!!"

"Well, allllllllll right, you pick out one more, but just one..."

What the fuck just happened? Our Cold War spy duo has now become a trio with another parent from the line to my left. You could cut diamonds with our glances. Without saying a word we all know that if that were our child she would not be leaving that store with ANY Kinder Eggs.

Instead, the pocket-sized prima donna rushes to the candy shelf. "Yay!  Barbie Kinder egg!"

Now the father pipes up, "You can have the toy....but I get to eat the chocolate from the second one."

"But I WANT the chocolate too!"

"You'll have enough chocolate with your own egg sweetie," says the mother.

"BUT. I. WANT. IT!!!"

"Oh well, we'll see..."

Oh yeah - this kid's going to be a joy when she's a teenager.

Things you should NEVER say to new mothers...

People say the stupidest crap to new moms.  One of my close friends just welcomed her first baby to the world and people have been saying truly moronic, unfeeling, make-a-new-mother-doubt-herself, crap to her.

To these morons I say: Yes, you have had a baby yourself.    THIS baby, however, is not YOUR baby.  THIS baby is different from your possibly decades-long remembrance of the baby you had.  THIS baby, when it (insert action here), might not want whatever the hell you think it wants. You just met THIS baby.  You don't know THIS baby.  THIS baby is an entity unto itself.

If THIS baby is using a soother, do not say, "Oh, you've chosen to use a soother?" in the most condescending tone possible.  Yes, the new mother has chosen to use the soother - that's why the baby is sucking on it.  The appropriate answer to this rhetorical piece of tsk-tsk, judgemental crap should be:  "Oh, we haven't chosen the soother, the baby chose it.  We left random items in the crib, you know, soother, teddy bear, switch blade, nun chucks - he decided to go with the soother.  We're a little bummed."

If the new mother has decided not to breastfeed, 1) it's none of your frickin' business, and B) DON'T say, "Have you tried..." and then list things.  She has.  She has tried.  She knows that breast milk is best.  She knows about the antibodies.  She KNOWS.  The next time this comes out of someone's mouth - make up the worst possible thing you can think of.  Coat your breasts with jam, lift your shirt and bra and say, "My mastitis was worse than most..."

"That baby is too young to be out visiting people!"  

"What's the alternative - shoving him back in, until he's cooked more?"

"Are you tired?"  

"Yes, yes, but not because of the baby.  It's all this spare time I've found I now have. I actually have more spare time than before the baby! I have learned to knit, paint watercolours and speak Italian - and that's just this week!  Next week, we'll be doing some tandem hang-gliding..."

"You have to get that baby on a schedule!" 

"As soon as I figure out how and when this time-sucking remora eats, sleeps and craps, you'll be the first to know."

"Oh s/he's not (insert verb here) yet?"  

"Yes, s/he is smiling/laughing/teething/crawling/walking/running/reading/writing/reciting the periodic table - (sad smile and wince). I don't think s/he is comfortable enough around you to share her/his talents."

"When's baby #2 coming?"  

"That depends.  How long did it take you after recuperating from the episiotomy, hemorrhoids, post-partum, self-doubt, lack of sexual interest/lubrication to get back up on the horse?"

Oh, and when the new mom phase has shifted to toddler mom...  If a toddler mom looks like she might possibly be pregnant?  Never ask,"When are you due?"  Ever.  In fact, don't say that phrase to any woman -  even if she looks like she has three basketballs inside her.  Don't say it.

When first hearing this phrase, an exhausted, overwhelmed, teetering-on-the-edge of sanity toddler mom will probably internalize it, dying just that little bit more inside.  The second, third or fourth time she hears it?  She could lose her shit, I know I did, with varying degrees of meaness depending on the tone of voice that the stranger (and it always seems to be strangers) used.

"Nope, not pregnant, just fat from the first one."
"Nope, not pregnant, stomach cancer."
"No... (sob)... not pregnant... I lost the baby at 7 months...

Give the new mom a break.  Let her lead the conversation - remember what it was like when you were a new mom - remember that.  Be there for her, be a sounding board, check in on her, brush her hair, let her shower, take the baby for a few hours so that she can do whatever she wants...  I know, I know, you've been there, you know it all, your child has turned out perfect.  No, she hasn't reinvented the wheel, but to her, it's still a brand new wheel.

Would the real Dance Moms please stand up?

I know... I know... I just ranted about this.  However.... What I saw over the past weekend warranted an update.

So... picture something similar to this,  but with 6-10 year old girls wearing special-ordered versions of this inflatable costume and dancing to....

BIG GIRLS DON'T CRY

I'll give you a moment and let that sink in folks...

There were probably 12-15 little girls in this dance number.  Which means that their dance teacher, AND all of their parents signed off on these costumes AND the theme of the routine.  Almost 24 hours later, and I'm still gobsmacked.  In bad taste on so many levels. Thank God the judges gave it the lowest mark of the morning - if they hadn't, I would have had to stand up and incite a riot.

In Dance of the Sugar Plum Sluts, I voiced my concern about 15 year old girls wearing fishnet seamed stockings as part of their costume.  Imagine if you will, 10 year old girls wearing fishnet seamed stockings... shaking their asses for the audience...  to the applause of their parents, 'cause that's what happened yesterday morning.

I recently was in a show where I wore seamed fishnet stockings.  TO BE SEXY ONSTAGE.  I had several men tell me that they were giving me a standing ovation, while still sitting.  Men and women alike become aroused by the appearance of seamed stockings.  You know why?  Because seamed stockings basically draw the eye right up to a gal's ass - which, when you want someone to be salivating at the sight of your ass and imagining what it would be like to become intimate with it, is great, but when the wearer of the seamed stocking doesn't even have pubic hair yet - should cause horror.

I'm not saying that all these dancers should be going the Shirley Temple route - not that their parents would know Shirley Temple if they fell over her, but a little less Tits  & Ass would be awesome.  I was thrilled when one of the judges gave a special award to a number and specifically mentioned 'age-appropriate' choreography.    More than a handful of routines over the weekend had choreography that was not age-appropriate.  There was a group of  competitive 16 year olds dancing to Fever who were so freaking hot they had me wanting to have sex with them.  All these kids are under 18.  Can we please agree that no audience member should want to have sex with any of them?

Dance of the Sugar Plum Sluts...

These girls are 9

So there I was... watching the baby sluts dance...  It was not, as might be inferred, the END OF DAYS - nope, that wasn't it.  Dance competition season had begun.  The last time I endured this was 5 years ago, when Rissa did a couple of group numbers at the age of 9.

I thought we were safe, this time around, I really did.  I told David, who came late to the party, that this year the dancers were mostly wearing clothes and weren't too slutty.

Hubris.  That's what it was.

No sooner had we sat down in the theatre (waiting for Rissa's group to dance), when pint-sized hip-hoppers clad in next to no clothing, all began shaking their little asses to the delight of their parents.  At least, I'm hoping it was their parents who, when these delightful little divas started doing the ass popping move, hooted hollered and cat called.  I hope to God that it wasn't some random pedophiles off the street who thought they'd found their own personal Heaven.  (Media Alert: ANYBODY can walk into a dance competition.) The booty-poppers were in the mini class - which means that they were 5 - or younger.  David and I shared looks of horror.  These wee little bits of spandex and sequins danced with this subtext:

"Hey, look at us grind our little asses!  See us shake our non-existent boobs!  We are A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E!!  Doesn't it just make you want to..."

"I swear to you," I said.  "This is the first that I've seen of it at the competition."

"My eyes!" David said.  "I need to bleach my eyes!!"

Then the Irish Step Dancers came out.  They were 15. Their costume: barely there, sparkly mid-torso shirts missing an arm, leatherette booty shorts and, wait for it... fishnet stockings with a seam up the back.  'Cause you know... that's what Irish dancing is all about.  Sex.  The fishnet stockings are there, I guess, because they were fishing.  Fishing for... sailors.   The girls were fabulous dancers - very precise, synchronized beautifully... and all I could think was "WHY ARE THEY DRESSED LIKE STRIPPERS?"  David turned his head so violently to avoid looking at them (and going straight to hell), that he almost broke his neck.

Dance schools have dress codes.  Really fricking serious dress codes.  You have to 'bunnify', you have to be covered, no jewelery, you can't look sloppy.  At least not until it's competition season and then apparently you're allowed to look like a $25 hooker who gives blow jobs in the drive-thru of an all-night Tim Hortons.

It can't just be us, can it?  Please God, tell me that David and I aren't the only parents who don't want our daughter graphically sexualized!  Rissa's 13, and if I discovered her doing the choreography that some of these 7 year olds were doing?  I'd be bringing up the dance studio on child pornography charges.  Over the weekend, I watched young girls performing to these songs:

I'm a Good Girl - A jazz solo by a sassy little 13 year old who basically did a burlesque number. Don't get me wrong - I love a good burlesque number - LOVE them - hell, I'd love to do one myself.  What I don't love?  Is watching a 13 year old offer her boobs up to the audience as something akin to the dessert section at all-you-can-eat buffet.

Put Your Grafitti On Me danced to by a group of 10 year olds in sequined bras and panties, splaying their fingers all over their bodies - basically indicating where they'd like their full-body bukkake.

The topper?   Flaunt - danced to by a  trio of 13 year olds who did a lot of gesturing to their own tatas and hoohas before they finished the number off by grinding their asses.  The lyrics of this song are:

Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?
Baby, come a little closer
Come and get to know me
And what I got?
Baby, won’t you come and see me?
Won’t you come and be with me?
See what I got
‘Cause what I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
What I got is what you need
It’s what you need
It’s what you need, so
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna wanna
Don’t you, don’t you wanna see me flaunt what I got?

"NO!  NO, I DON'T!!!  You're 13!  WHERE ARE YOUR PARENTS??  Put on some fucking clothes!"

I'm not a prude.  Read my posts about sex, you'll see.  I love sex.  I read tonnes of erotica, I enjoy off-colour smut.  Have done, since I was a young adult.  My daughter is 13.  I am not comfortable with her being thought of as a sex object.  I don't want her to become accustomed to receiving applause for popping her booty.  I don't want her to think that being clad in next to nothing in public doesn't have consequences.   Yes, in a perfect world, we should all be able to run around naked and nothing would happen.  Yes, the human body is just skin with hills and valleys defining our primary and secondary sexual organs.  It shouldn't cause such riot.  But it does.  We can pretend that the world has changed, but it hasn't. For millennia men have been schooled to believe that women's clothing and behaviour can warrant a Get Out of Jail Free card...  Yes, it's 2014, and yes, it's still happening.

So how about this?  Let's just encourage our children to... dance.  In clothing that allows them to move without sharing their asses with the world;  to music that empowers rather than subjugates.  Can we please be vigilant parents, protecting our precious progeny - allowing them the time to grow up?  'Cause here's the hard truth folks:  Your little girl, who used to skip around the dance studio in innocent abandon, pretending to be a butterfly?  That little girl, when she dances all 'grown up', is going to have random strangers in a crowded theatre wanting to fuck her. And if you're cool with that?  You need to re-examine what it means to be a parent.

My ass is not happy.

We are on the hunt for a sofa bed.  On account of the fact that our new house does not have a guest room.  As Canadians, we need to be able to offer extreme-weather lodgings.  It's in the Canadian Manifesto.  Or it would be if Canada had a Manifesto.

My Mom took great pride in emphatically stating that we could sleep 22 people in our house.  We were military - you never knew who might stop by.  We had more sofa beds and guest beds than your average bear. It's a badge of family honour for me.  A tradition.   I need to be able to find space for 22 people to sleep in my new home.  My new, 1500 sq. foot home with NO guest room.  David's already started devising plans to jerry-rig some beds from an alternate dimension.  Patent pending.

I am determined to be able to sleep at least two.  At the very least we need a sofa bed to take care of overnight guests.  All I want is a functioning sofa bed that is actually comfortable to sit on.  Okay, a functioning sofa bed, comfortable to sit on and that doesn't look like crap.  Is that so much to ask?  Is it?  Not a fricking futon on a pine frame - I'm 45 years old - not a first year Arts student.  Not something that feels like you're balancing your derriere on concrete.  Something with a modicum of style that can accommodate overnight guests.  It's like searching out the Holy Freaking Grail.

I have been trying out sofa beds for weeks now.  My ass going from shop to shop to shop.  Kind of like Goldilocks, but with no "just right" in sight. 

This has nothing to do with the post,
but when I was trying to find a good Goldilocks
illustration I got distracted.

They're ALL too hard.  All of them.  You can look all you want online, but you cannot buy a sofa without letting your ass feel it. So we've been trolling the furniture shops.  We find the exact model that we like, that our asses enjoy - ask if it comes in a sofa bed - and the salesperson won't meet our eyes when they say "Yes."  Because they know.  They know that somewhere in the fabrication of inexpensive sofa beds, (Because, let's face it, we are NOT going to spend $3,000 on a piece of furniture.  EVER), that the base and ass cushions are injected with some sort of concrete polymer that ensures that one would rather sit on the floor than on this piece of furniture masquerading as comfortable. 

I'm desperately trying to find an alternative to IKEA here folks.  I'd love to shop local and support the little guy, but those damned Swedes with their good prices and relatively comfortable pieces and delivery are calling to me.  "Ve huv sofas end matchink sofa beds end cumfy chayerrs - ull vith slip cuverrs...  Cooom to de Scandinavian siede Headder!"  Oh God, it may be too late!

And that's why I need a Tardis.

Because 3000 sq feet of furniture from a 2.5 story century home will not fit into a 1500 sq foot 1.5 story... even older century home.  No matter how much we might want it to.

David's a list maker.  It calms him - it gives him purpose.  So we took his laptop and went from room to room and we itemized every single piece of furniture that we have.  It was supposed to give us... perspective. I got chest pains.  And a little hyperventilate-y.  We had four options for the stuff.  Move. Sell.  Donate.  Dump.

Where was the Tardis option?  I want that option!  The option where I can just open the door to a closet and miraculously find 1000 square feet of storage space in it?  Where's that option?!?

If someone could actually work out the technology for The Tardis, they'd make gazillions of dollars to downsizing families.  Forget cold fusion people, make me a freaking Tardis!

I have a whole 4' x 8' room in our basement that is devoted to Christmas Decorations, a 10' x 10' room for crafts and sewing and another 8' x 8' room that is... who am I kidding here?  It's full of crap.  It really is.  It's got suitcases and old books that were taken off the shelves in the office when were first staging the house for selling three years ago, and furniture that was too big or superfluous.  It's a room full of stuff we never use - have NEVER used, not since we moved into this house 8 years ago.  Boxes of electronics and old stereos and extra sofa cushions from when we turned our Ikea Ektorp corner sofa into a massive chesterfield.  If I were Barbara Eden, I'd wiggle my nose and nod my head and the room would magically deposit its contents to the appropriate corresponding locations: Kijiji purchasers' homes, the Habitat ReStore and the dump.

Two closets and a cubby under the eaves.  That's what the new house has.  We do have a basement, but it's the basement of a150 year old house - a gravel and dirt floor and a sump pump working overtime.  Anything stored down there needs to be off the floor on plastic shelving in Hermetically sealed containers. 

And really, other than Christmas decorations, what needs to be stored?  The record collection that I've been carting around for decades without a turntable to play them on?  The boxes of fabric that I might find a use for, come Halloween 2020?  The books that have laid in their boxes for years now, no one to open them, no one to peruse their contents?    It's just stuff.  And it's not stuff that is bringing us joy.  We don't cling to that stuff, soak up its nostalgia and cuddle in its warmth.  We store it, just in case.  Just in case... what???  No really, just in case what?  Just in case we suddenly reside in a mausoleum where these items are displayed as relics of our past?  Where they are under-glass memories of days gone by?  Where we keep them just to say they're kept and puff up our chests in the knowledge that we hold onto our heritage?

Nope.  Not going to happen.  No more storing things.  No more just-in-casing things.  We either use them or they go.  Just typing that and a weight has fallen off my shoulders.  "They go."   Keep what's precious and let go of the rest of it go.  No buts, no gasps of  near-intention, no hemming or hawing... decide and live with that decision.   Let that beat up Elvis album find a place of pride in someone else's home - in the home of someone who plays it on a turntable with all of its skips and analog noise.  And you can rest easy in knowing that because you let go - you gave someone else joy.

I'm dreaming of an anorexic Christmas...

How did she do it?  Vera Ellen, I mean.  How could she even stand, let alone DANCE, in White Christmas?  We watched it the other night, the girls and I.

Yeah, we sang along.  Yeah, we rolled our eyes at some of the nostalgic schtick.  Yeah, we got teary-eyed when  General Waverly came into the dining hall.   And yes, watching the horses pull that frickin' sleigh around the road as the set flew out leaving the open barn door to show everyone that there was a true Christmas miracle of fluffy falling snow, made us all go "Awwwwwwwwwwww..."

And yet every time Vera Ellen danced, all we could focus on was how she was doing it, given that she had the Body Mass Index of a cadaver.  I'm remiss - the first real dance, (not in the Sisters floor show) the one with Danny Kaye out on the pier, when she was in a longer skirt, didn't freak us out.  But from the time she appeared in that yellow outfit in the train scene - with her seemingly CGI'd waist - we winced.  I swear to God, that I, with my large peasant hands, could have spanned her middle.

At one point you see her ribs through that top. From then on - the movie became bitter-sweet for me. This beautiful, graceful, accomplished dancer, wearing high-necked costumes in every single shot - her legs so thin that you could see the tendons...  it was like seeing a car crash on the highway, I couldn't look away.

She hadn't always been this emaciated.  If you look at her just a few years earlier - her face was rounder, the waist not quite so wasp thin.  She looked fit.  She looked strong.  She had muscle.

From On The Town

From Wonder Man

circa 1950

Once you've been up close and personal with someone suffering from anorexia, you recognize the signs.  For me it was seeing a girlfriend from high school about 6 months after graduation.  There'd been rumors of her having an eating disorder in school, but until I saw her, with her shoulders bare, I hadn't believed it.  We were at a movie theatre, she was sitting behind me.  I turned around to say "Hi" and could see immediately that something wasn't right.  Her shoulders and collar bones stuck out, seemingly misplaced on her torso.  I stuttered, desperate not to blurt out something inappropriate.  In my head, all I thought was, "Why?!?"  Why did she do this to herself?  Why?  She didn't have extra weight.  Not that I could see.  She'd been sporty - been on teams.  She always looked healthy and fit.  But there, in that movie theatre, she looked frail.  She looked brittle.  I was afraid that I'd break her.

I saw that girl in 1987 - almost 30 years gone now, and the image of her, with her bones protruding, has kept with me.  I kick myself for keeping quiet.

Seeing Vera Ellen dance took my breath away, but not for the reasons it should have, not because she could do things with her feet that I couldn't fathom, not because she made her movement seem effortless, not because she was a spectacular dancer.  And she was.  God, she was talented!

I wish that I could have been there to tell her that.  I wish that someone had told her that.  That someone had let her know that she was perfect, just as she was.  I wish she could have seen herself through someone else's eyes - could see her talent and ability and beauty and believed in it.  I wish that her disease hadn't skewed her perception to the point that she looked like this:

White Christmas has become a cautionary tale for me.  I know, not very Christmassy, right?  It just got me thinking is all. Hold your girls tight - let them know they're perfect as they are. If they can't see it, if their mind is playing tricks on them, set them straight - get them help.  You want to have them around for always, not just at Christmas time. 

I am THIS kind of geek...

The smallest of things can make me happy.  Watching a dog cavort in the snow, smelling gingersnap body lotion, hearing Grantaire sing those four notes in his part from Red and Black, "I have never heard him 'ooh' and 'aah.'  If you were to have those notes, plus the character Annas from Jesus Christ Superstar singing "carpenter king" from This Jesus Must Die on loop you could just leave me in an orgasmic puddle on the floor.

 Listen from 1:25 to 1:37 - Clive Carter's last four notes in the phrase - KILLER

 Play from 2:45 - 2:50 and listen to the genius of Brian Keith

Okay, that pretty much lets the cat out of the bag right there.  I am a geek of the musical persuasion.  A sing-along kind of gal, a waiting for the high-note harlot, who gets wet when a tenor hits a B flat.

The Sing Off is back.  In case you're not the same breed of musical geek such as I, The Sing Off is a talent show not unlike The Voice or Canadian Idol but instead of solo artists, it features groups who sing... A CAPPELLA!!!!   For those who aren't versed in Italian, that means singing with no freaking instruments.  If one wanted to be accurate, it would be "in the manner of the chapel," but in music when you sing a cappella, you sing without instruments, because I guess that they never used to let you bring your bassoon into the chapel.

The opening group number came on and I almost started crying I was so happy.  Over 100 wireless mics onstage with what must have been a deity for a sound technician, creating the most full, balanced and perfect mix of music.  I actually did salivate because the sound was so delectable.  I made 'nom, nom, nom' noises. Singers listening to one another, finding their place, giving and taking... It's the Olympics of singing.

Music can get me to my happy place faster than any other thing.  It's quicker than liquor AND foreplay.  Why wait, when you can hear Pavarotti sing Caruso or hear those incredible 'grab you by the ovaries' basses in Muse's Super Massive Black Hole?  The Violent Femmes' Blister in the Sun starts me dancing instantaneously, Arvo Pärt's Spiegel im Spiegel can bring tears to my eyes from its very first notes.

Some visuals will get me too - you know, the clichéd sunsets or spotting a fox when you're walking on the beach - but music's pull is immediate.  You want something that alters your mood?  You don't have to take drugs, you just have to find the mood you want and listen to it.

It's not just about getting pregnant...

"So if Rissa were a lesbian and she had a girlfriend, would you let the girlfriend sleep over?  You know, seeing as there'd be no threat of pregnancy?" asked David.

"NO!!"  The word came out even before I had time to reflect.  I think I was a shocked as David.  Heather, the liberal minded, had come up against the brick wall of motherhood.

"Really??" 

"Really.  It'd still be someone wanting to get in my daughter's pants.  It doesn't matter if that someone is a girl.   If that someone were a cuddly koala bear who wanted to get in my daughter's pants, that someone is NOT sleeping over.  Or if they are sleeping over,  it's in a completely different room down the hall.  With all the squeaky floorboards around it and maybe a bear trap."

"Really...  so you'd want them to have to be sneaky so that they could fool around?"

"Yeah, like every other teenager in the history of the world.  It was good enough for me."

"I was just thinking it through, is all.  We say that if there comes a time that she's drinking underage...

"IF there comes a time...?"

" ...That we'd rather she do it at home where it's safe than..."

"You cannot tell me that you're cool with anyone trying to get in your daughter's pants."

"Well, no, but you're thinking about this as if someone wants to get into her pants now, when she's only 13..."

"Have you seen our daughter?!?  And it's not just the getting pregnant part of sex that worries me.  I was an under-aged girl having sex.  At 16, I wasn't ready for the ramifications of it.  The emotional intensity.  No one gets to sleep over, male or female, until she's at least 18 and in a committed relationship."

"So public places all the time?  No one up in her room?"

"Only if the bedroom door remains open 100% of the time."

"What if they're watching a movie in the basement under a blanket...?"

"No blankets!!!"  I could hear myself starting to panic.

"It's cold in the basement."

"I don't care!  NO BLANKETS!  And we get to randomly run down the stairs and say things like 'Would you kids like popcorn?' and sit on the arm of the sofa or maybe even in between them."

"This is a whole new side to you.  You're so... GRRRRRRRRR..."

"Damn straight.  I'm not going to make it easy for ANYONE to get into my daughter's pants."

Condoms +

"He may only touch your boobs if he is doing it with two separate Swiffers held from the length of their poles."

My daughter is now of an age where there's a real possibility that dudes will be touching her boobs.  She has a boyfriend (whom I adore), but he's still a teenaged boy with all the attending testosterone.  He's going to want to touch her boobs.   Hell, I'm her Mom and I want to touch her boobs.  That sounded wrong didn't it?  Oh God, I'm going to turn into that Grandma from Sixteen Candles!  I'm going to be feeling up my granddaughters.  It's just that new boobs are the antithesis of 45 year old, having nursed one's young, boobs.  There's a level of visual fascination there.  Mine haven't been like that in SOOOOO long.

Is it wrong of me to want my daughter to wear a mask that makes her look like Quasimodo?  Convince her to walk with a limp, talk in a terrifying accent?  Just until university. Knowing that she's holding hands?  Totally cool with that.  It's adorable.  I hear that she's being kissed goodbye on the doorstep and I have a moment of commiserative joy, of me going "Awwwwwwww."  Then I remember what it was like to be having those first kisses.  And then I remember what happens when you start to feel tingly.  When there's pressure to let him to second base and then to third and then he wants to slide home...

"You need to tell me when you start getting tingly.  Seriously. 'Cause then you need to be on the pill. Along with the condoms.  You cannot use condoms alone as birth control.  You can't!!!  It has to be Condoms +.  Condoms + spermicidal foam.  Condoms + the patch.  Condoms + an IUD!!!  And if he gets an orgasm, you get one too!!"

I'm facing the battleground folks.  I have a teenaged daughter.  From now until she leaves home, we're standing guard against teen pregnancy. There are those parents who will just forbid sex, or ignore the possibility that their kids will be having it, but I remember what it was like being 16 and feeling tingly.  I remember.  Sex is a biological imperative for boys, and though some parents don't want to admit it, girls too.  It's what we want to do - as a species.  To turn a blind eye to that fact is insane.  You might as well deny climate change.  12-15 years from now I will be ready to be a grandmother.  Until then, I will stand armed with a fireplace poker, ready to disable any sperm provider that wants to knock up my daughter.

I'm not being euphemistic.  It's a promise.

A sucker for snow

I woke up this morning and saw this in my backyard:

Then out the kitchen window, looking east:

And from our front window:

I know that there are naysayers out there, who hate the snow, who grumble and pout at the first sight of it, but I'm not one of them.  I love the first real snowfall.  Second and third snowfalls too.  The sixth and seventh ain't bad either.  I LOVE them.  Waking up to new fallen snow makes me happy. 

You know why?  Because it immediately brings out the 5 year old in me, filled with wonder and awe and the possibility of a snow day. That fresh snow, topping the pines, decorating the junipers... it's a moment of natural perfection.   White and clean - looking like a real-life Christmas card just from frozen precipitation. It makes me want to grab a toboggan and rush to the Catholic high school's track and giggle and shriek my way down to the bottom of the hills that surround it.  Let me have that.  Let me enjoy the moment before the +1 this afternoon turns the beautiful white into slushy grey and brown and has me yelling at family members to make sure to clean their feet off outside.

Carpe freaking nix folks - it's Canada, we're Canadians and winter is here!

THIS is R-rated?!?

WARNING - THIS POST IS RATED R FOR LANGUAGE.

Rissa saw her first R rated film when she was probably 10.  Yep, we were those parents.  The movie was Love Actually.  You know the one... Richard Curtis's quintessential feel-good Christmas film?  Probably one of the sweetest holiday movies ever?  The one where even the most manly of men will be crying when the kid jumps into Liam Neeson's arms?  That one.  It was rated 14A in Canada and rated R in the States for language, sexual situations and nudity.   And yes, Bill Nighy had some colourful language and there were some comical positioning of nearly nude bodies as body doubles, but it was pretty freaking tame.

Richard Curtis's latest film, About Time, also got an R-rating in the States.  We'd been looking up reviews on Rotten Tomatoes, found out it was rated R and suddenly we felt we had to develop a strategy for sneaking Rissa in.  Turns out we didn't have to worry for two reasons: 1) the movie is rated 14A in Canada and Rissa looks like she's 18 already, and 2)  in researching the MPAA rating system, we realized that David and I can take Rissa into any R rated movie we want to because we are, in fact, her parents/guardians.  Did you know that?  We could take her to see the next graphic slasher film - in the theatre - WE'RE NOT GOING TO, but we could.   

         MPAA Ratings

• Rated G: General Audiences – All Ages Admitted.
• Rated PG: Parental Guidance Suggested – Some Material May Not be Suitable for Children.
• Rated PG-13: Parents Strongly Cautioned – Some Material May be Inappropriate for Children Under 13.
• Rated R: Restricted – Under 17 Requires Accompanying Parent or Adult Guardian.
• Rated NC-17: No Children Under 17 Admitted.
  
  Canadian Motion Picture Ratings

• G - General Audience - Suitable for all ages.
• PG - Parental Guidance - Parental guidance advised. There is no age restriction but some material may not be suitable for all children.
• 14A - 14 Accompaniment - Persons under 14 years of age must be accompanied by an adult.
• 18A - 18 Accompaniment - Persons under 18 years of age must be accompanied by an adult. In the Maritimes & Manitoba, children under the age of 14 are prohibited from viewing the film.
• R - Restricted - Admittance restricted to people 18 years of age or older.

After viewing About Time, we were mystified as to what could garner an R rating for the film.  No gun violence.  Yeah, there'd been some language, but David and I found it all pretty mild.  In the ratings systems in both Canada and the US apparently you get ONE FREE FUCK in the script without having to up your ratings.

According to the MPAA "A motion picture’s single use of one of the harsher sexually-derived words, though only as an expletive, initially requires at least a PG-13 rating. More than one such expletive requires an R rating, as must even one of those words used in a sexual context.4 or more utterances of 'hard language' gets you an automatic R rating."  Which I'm thinking means that if you're using fuck as an adjective and not sexually, you can get 4 before you get your R rating.  But if you say you want to fuck someone then it's automatically an R rating.  Because fucking, folks, we all know is bad.

As to the language in the film... There were a few haphazard fucks in the script, but I double checked with Rissa and apparently the fucks really start flying in the school yard at around the age of 11, so the brief use of language of its ilk in the film for our 13 year old daughter doesn't freak me out because she will literally hear worse at school.  There wasn't any nudity in the film apart from arty photographic shots of Kate Moss at a gallery in the film.  We figured that the rating had to come down to the joking mention of  oral sex and actually uttering the word 'cunnilingus.' So  About Time gets its R rating in the States for alluding to pleasing a woman orally and using technical language to describe that act... in a joke.  Although I guess I shouldn't really be surprised, Rob Ford crassly mentioned having "more than enough to eat at home" and the gasps could be heard around the world.

And yet... AND YET... violence in PG13 movies in the States has been ramping up and up and up for decades, but that's okay.  God no, don't even allude to consensual sex, but showing rampant gun violence?  Not a problem.  Snapping people's necks?  Shooting them?  Completely fine.  ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!? They just did this study that's catching a lot of air time this week: GUN VIOLENCE TRENDS IN MOVIES.  Well worth a read.  And perhaps a re-examination of the ratings system, and how 'bout while we're at it,  a re-examination of what really is okay for our kids to be exposed to in film?  Cause here's the thing: I would love, love to share the Kill Bill films with Rissa for their strong portrayal of women and the brilliant visual stylization of Tarantino's film-making, but Rissa will not see those until she's at least 16 because of the extreme violence in them.  Not the language.  I really don't give two fucks about the language - the language isn't going to hurt her, isn't going to scar her.  Violent images, however, just might.  She's my kid, I've got to to look out for her.

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

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.

Creation of a Psychopath - just add dead squirrel

There were two girls, seven, maybe eight years old, on the sidewalk a couple of blocks ahead of us.  They had a stick.  They were moving something onto the road with the stick.  Having walked down the road earlier that day, I knew that the thing they were moving into the road was a dead squirrel.  See, I remembered, because I'd thought to myself upon viewing it earlier, I wish I had a bag.  I could pick the poor bugger up and take it home and bury it.  But I hadn't had a bag, so I'd left it there, dead on the side of the road.

But these little girls, done up in barrettes and braids, clad in colourful dresses, were moving this dead squirrel further onto the road.  David and I shared a look.  I ain't gonna lie.  A shudder literally went down my spine.  Why would two little girls push a dead squirrel further onto the road?  Most little girls wouldn't go near a dead animal even with a stick.  I found myself thinking, If that was two little boys, they'd be doing it to watch the squirrel get flattened by oncoming traffic.  I caught myself short.  As if a lack of empathy is a predominantly male trait.  Like only boys burn ants when they get a hold of a magnifying glass.  As if the male of the species has the market cornered on the steps to psychopathy.

The Grady Twins from Kubrick's The Shining

So we watched from a distance, as these two giggling girls pushed the squirrel carcass out and then hid behind their privacy fence.  As we passed, we could hear them tittering.  We really should have stopped.  We really should have asked what they were doing.  We really should have called them on it.  Or at least drawn the attention of any proximal adults. 

"Hey!  You!  Yeah, YOU, with the stick in your hand and pink barrettes in your hair!  What are you doing to that squirrel?"

"What squirrel?"

"The dead one, the one that we just watched you push onto the road."

Shrug

This is when I should have crouched down and got eye to eye with those girls and said,  "Being cruel to animals, even dead ones, isn't cool kids.  It means that you lack empathy.  And when you lack empathy, your bladder weakens and soon, very soon, you'll not only wet the bed, but you'll pee your pants while you're awake and everyone at school will point and laugh at you and say, 'Those are the girls who did bad things to animals.'  You will be labeled as 'troubled' and spend all your time in the Principal's office and never make more than minimum wage.  Nobody will ever date you and when you are old and ill, your wheelchair will be left on the shoulder of the 401 with a sign on it that says 'HIT ME.' "

That would have only been too much if I'd actually said it out loud.  Instead, I kept my mouth shut and will have to live with the fact that Sally and Susie Psycho will continue to roam the streets.

How to stop the onslaught of dementia

Wait!  It'll come to me!

Some people do Sudoku.  For others it's crosswords.  Still others, brain teasers.  All to keep their minds sharp - build their reserves against dementia.  My Dad, whose own father succumbed to Alzheimer's, has a vested interest in keeping his brain in gear.  He has a simple plan.  It all centres around The Witches of Eastwick.

If ever he's doubting his mental state, my Dad uses this movie.  It's his litmus test.  He figures that if he can name the three female stars of the movie, that he's still good to go, that the dementia hasn't set in yet. Which means, if he's having a bad brain day where words aren't coming and certain things remain on the tip of his cranium, he'll name the stars: Cher, Michelle Pfeiffer and Susan Sarandon.  I guess for him, Jack Nicholson wasn't all that important to the story.  Or maybe Jack's too easy to remember - I mean, after all, he is JACK. Of the three actresses, Susan Sarandon seems to trip him up, but he always remembers, which is a good sign.

There are days when I too, worry if I will suffer from Alzheimer's, as my grandfather did.  He wasn't diagnosed until his 70s, so the fear of early onset isn't as terrifying for me.  'Course I'm in my mid 40s - my Dad will soon be 70, he jokes about keeping the wheels turning upstairs, but I know there's a part of him that's not joking so much as keeping an eye out.

When bouts of aphasia (speechlessness - sure, I can remember that word) hit me, I panic.  I use words a lot, I LOVE words - the more obscure the better.  When they don't come to me, I can feel a tide of helplessness in my gut.  I used to be able to remember everything - stupid trivial things - now when I'm searching for the word 'teapot,' most of me thinks it's just naturally being distracted from an over-scheduled life, but there is that tiny, niggling part that whispers, "What if?" 

Forgetting your keys is a normal brain fart.  Forgetting what keys DO?  Then you maybe should worry.  Me?  I put my keys in the same place in my purse every time.  I'm not giving the keys a headstart.

Where were your peeps on this one Miley?

Yes, you're the #1 trending thing today, and you're probably going to be getting all sorts of requests for late-night TV, so it'll blind you for a bit to how extensive all this really was.    And you'll even say that you won't lurk online and read stuff about yourself sweetie, but you will.   And a lot of it'll be nasty and hurtful and you will be devastated.

I think that there needs to be a support group.  And not just for Miley, but for ALL the child stars out there who want to bridge that gap between childhood and adult stardom but pull an Icarus and fly way too freaking close to the sun.   There are precious few who make the leap without crashing and burning.  For every Christina and Dakota who seem to have their heads on straight, there are many more Lindsays and Amandas who, I'm only guessing, are surrounded by 'yes' people and no one who actually keeps them grounded in reality.  Where are the mentors?  Where's Drew Barrymore - guiding you into the light?  I think that Meryl Streep, Jodie Foster, Tilda Swinton and Glenn Close should each get six to ten girls teetering on the edge between successful teen star and starlet given to public displays of drunken crazy and make sure they don't tank.

Miley, now might be the time to reach out to those people who tell you the truth and have your back. Your real friends and family - not the ones who smile and nod and tell you you're cool and that every idea you have is brilliant. You're only 20 years old.  You've got a whole lot more living and learning to do.  I'd love for you to still be around so I can watch you do it.

Why your Nana shouldn't be behind the wheel.

We lived next door to a lady named Kay.  She was in her 80s.  One of those Europeans who, although she'd been in Canada for 50 years, still had her accent - just like my own Granny.  Kay was effusive in welcoming us to the neighbourhood.  We had to learn to lock our door during the day because she'd would occasionally walk in with a coffee cake when I'd be trying to put Rissa down for a nap.

One day, Kay backed out of her driveway in her massive Crown Victoria - she basically did a reverse U-Turn as she left her driveway, rolling over the curb onto our yard, hitting the For Sale sign on our lawn, then running into our tree.  She then put the car into drive and left.  Shortly after that, she asked David to help her get into the garage.  The door to her garage was locked, you see.

"Where are your keys?" David asked.  "Did you lock them in the garage?"

"No, no, they are here," she said, handing them to him.  "But there isn't a place to put the key."

There were no keys for the door.   It was one of those doors where you have to push the handle in and turn it to lock and then do the opposite to unlock it.  Problem was, Kay didn't remember how it worked.

"It won't work!"  She tried turning the handle this way and that.  "You see?!?"

"Why do you need to get into the garage Kay?" David asked.

"I need to drive to the grocery store."

"How about I drive you to the grocery store?" David suggested.  David palmed her car keys, sneaking them into his pocket.  After driving her to the grocery store, he called her doctor.

"Thank God," said the receptionist.  "We were hoping that someone would stop her from driving."

Apparently everyone in the doctor's office knew that she wasn't safe to drive, but no one thought to do anything about it.  Makes sense I guess.  It should really be left to her neighbour to suffer the brunt of her outrage when said neighbour wouldn't return her car keys to her.  We were in suburbia - not having a car for her was like having an arm cut off.  David, however, wasn't willing to pass that sentence on to unsuspecting pedestrians.

One friend's grandfather, who had terrible cataracts, still continued to drive - using his wife in the passenger seat as his navigator.  Driving behind a tractor one day, he pulled out to pass and narrowly missed being hit by an oncoming car.  He hadn't seen it.  Nor had his wife in the passenger seat.  You see, her view had been blocked by the tractor.

My own grandfather suffered from Alzheimer's, most days he couldn't recognize me, but my Gran took him out every day driving, "so he wouldn't forget how."

I stopped by the pharmacy the other day.  The parking lot to this particular shopping area is crap.  There's a gas station that empties into a driving lane as well as an entrance off the major road.  There was an older lady pulling away from the gas station.  She was focused on me, as I approached the entrance to the parking lot.  She didn't see the car coming on her right towards the exit.  The guy in the other car honked his horn in warning - several times. She kept driving.  She looked accusingly at me as the guy leaned on his horn, now desperate to get her attention.  If she were younger, I have a sneaking suspicion that she'd have flipped me the bird for honking at her.

I pulled up to the store.   Two of the plate glass windows at the front had been decimated.  Construction fencing had been erected around the damaged area.  I figured some local hooligans had maybe gotten bored and did the damage.  I went in to mail my packages at the Canada Post Counter - people were still sweeping up.  There were a couple of official looking guys in suits who were on their I-Phones "We need this covered Stan.  Don't tell me tomorrow, I need it today!"  As I got to the postal counter, packages in hand, I asked the gal manning the cash how her day was.

"Well, I'm better now," she said.

"That's good to hear."  I rummaged for my wallet, preparing to pay.

"It's not every day that someone decides to make their own drive-thru in a store where there isn't a drive-thru."

"Pardon?"

"A lady drove right through the window."

So, not hooligans then.  An older lady in her SUV was the culprit.  Panicked when she initially pulled onto the curb, she stepped on the gas, was propelled forward and then smashed through the windows.  No one was in front of those particular windows at the time, a fact which I'm sure will cheer her right up.

I'm not saying that ALL elderly people shouldn't be driving.  There are plenty out there who are exemplary drivers. What I'm saying is that there are some Grans, Opas, Mimaws, Dedas, Grampies and Nonnas out there, who, right now?  When they are behind the wheel?  Shouldn't be.  They're like James freaking Bond!  They have been awarded '00' status.

Sure, in Ontario, after the age of 80, you have to take a written test, and have your eyes tested, but that doesn't necessarily mean that you have to pass a practical driving test.  A study from Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh and the AAA Foundation for Traffic Safety suggests  that drivers over the age of 85 have quadruple the fatal car accidents of male teenaged drivers.  Some senior driving advocates, say that this statistic is unrealistic because seniors are more frail than other drivers and do not recover from car accidents in the same way that younger victims do.

29% of the Canadian population are baby boomers.  My Dad is 69 and my Mom is 68 years old.  They, like a lot of parents, retired to their dream home.  They live 5 km from their nearest town and are dependent upon their vehicle for shopping, socializing and medical appointments.  They speak of down-sizing, not for driving reasons, but due to property maintenance.  My Mom's already scoped out the senior condos that are a walkable distance to the golf course.  She's forward thinking. 

David's Dad lives in a similar location, far removed from transit.   Thankfully, David's Mom is in a city centre that has a transit system, and they're located about a 25 minute walk from the closest mall and grocery store.  Within the last few years, all three sets of parents have altered their driving habits.  They won't drive in snowy weather and dislike driving at night.

No one likes having the difficult conversations.  "Hey Mom, what do you think about us taking away all your independence?"   But you know what?  We need to start talking about this stuff now, before there is a problem. The local pharmacy incident is going to be my conversation starter.  My parents are very practical, but I know that it'd be an incredible blow to my Dad if he could no longer drive.  This is one bullet that I don't want to bite, but I'm going to have to.  Maybe I'll never notice anything with their driving.  Maybe they'll never become those seniors who can't make a left turn.  I hope to God that's the case.  I hope to God that they give my parents a citation for perfect driving when they're in their 90s.  But if that not the case?  I have to have the balls to call them on it.

And that's how you displace a rib

I used to be really bendy when I was younger.  (Steady folks.) Comes of being a gymnast.  I was incredibly flexible.  (STEADY...)  Which is great when most of what you do in sport is bend in half backwards, run, skip and bounce.  Trouble is, all those extra-stretchy ligaments?  After years and years of stretching?  They get loose.  Think 1950s streewalker plied with cigarettes and mint juleps kind of loose.

I can pop a rib out of place by, say, putting on a dress.  The other day I did pop a rib putting on a dress.  I dragged it on over my head, stretched to get my right arm through... and pop!  Stabbing pain through my chest wall.  Which each frickin' breath.  My body is so screwed that I can pop a rib by tilting to the side when I blow dry my hair.

And once that rib's out?  Hard to pop it back in all by yourself.  I can't just whack myself against the wall like Detective Riggs, hoping that everything will be all hunky dory.

I pop those ribs and I'm making a call to my chiropractor who then yells at me for not coming in for a tune up sooner.  "You need to MAINTAIN!  You have to MAINTAIN your spine! How many times do I have to say this to you?!?"

But really?  Who has the time or the money to do maintenance on themselves?  I don't have extra cash just there, waiting to be spent on me.  After I separated my shoulder several years ago, I was supposed to have massages once a month to ensure I didn't seize up. I was really good about going... for the first year and a half.  Okay, the first year... Okay, six months...  Then I started to slack off.  I think I'm lucky now, if I get a professional massage once a year.  I go into the clinic and my massage therapist 'tsk-tsk's me.  She shakes her head and gives me the same eyes that disappointed European wives give to their spouses. 

What kind of disposable income does a gal need for spine and rib maintenance?  I'm sure that I must be able to scrape together the extra dough to be able to tweak and tune.  I don't need to be  rich.  I just need that little bit of extra cash at the end of the month.  You know... after we've paid the remaining six grand on our new roof, chipped away at our credit line debt and Visa bill, saved for our retirement and Rissa's education, shifted funds for our house insurance, bought food, paid for Rissa's dance lessons, utilities and ensured that David's salary dip (because of union and membership fees etc.) doesn't bankrupt us come January when we lose $250 every two weeks.  Oh yeah, I'm sure that after ALL that, there'll be more than enough so that I can get a... massage.  Nice to have these 1st World problems, no?  This is all they're thinking about in Egypt right now.

The Right way to do Laundry

David and I are doing laundry at my parents' place. It’s such a lovely day that we decide that we’re going to hang the clothes on the line to dry. After about 5 mintues, from within the house, I hear shrieks from my female relatives.  My mother, Granny, Gran and Aunt Bea are all in the kitchen.  My Mother’s voice assaults me from across the deck.

“Heather!  What are you doing?” my mother yells to me.

“I’m hanging up the laundry.”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“Pardon me?”

“You don’t hang up laundry that way!”

“What way?”

“One sock, one towel, one t-shirt…”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.”

“What?”

“You have to hang things up in groups.  All the t-shirts, all the socks, all the underwear…”

“Who says?”

“It’s just the way it’s done!”

“Why?”

“Because it makes a nicer looking clothes line.”

“What, are the laundry police going to come out and give us a ticket?”

“Don’t you get smart!”

“All I want to know is who decided that this was the way laundry has to be dried?   I mean, does it dry faster your way?”

“You are not too old for the wooden spoon young lady!”

My mother still threatens me with the wooden spoon.  If I swear in the house, she’ll threaten.  If I’m too sarcastic, she’ll threaten.  If I make a face …  you name it, if I’m 'sassy,' she’ll bring out the spoon.  The thing is – I don’t actually remember her ever using the wooden spoon. I just remember hearing about the spoon.

Let me give you an idea about the type of person my Mom is.  She is the classiest woman I know, even when she’s leg wrestling.  My husband challenged her to a match and she kicked his ass!  She’s one of my best friends.  Not everyone has the privilege of having a friendship with their mother.  I do. Not only do I get along with her – I actually choose to spend time with her, especially when she’s singing obnoxiously at the top of her voice “I am the CHAMPION!  I AM THE CHAMPION!!”  And then doing her half-assed attempt at a fist pump.   

"Whu-whu-whu-whu-whu!"

And you know, no matter how old I am, no matter how much knowledge I have, my Mother will always know more than I do.  Because she did it all first.  And I’ll always turn to her and ask for her advice.  Sure, the details of the advice may not be exactly what I want to hear, but I know that regardless of generation gaps and differences of opinion, a lot of these things that she tells me?  Are exactly what I need to hear.   And what’s scary?  It really does make a nicer looking clothes line.

*This piece is an excerpt from my show How to Leave Adolescence at 30 written in 1999.  As I stumbled about in our laundry room this morning - it seemed appropriate.