Teacher's strike.

I read a piece in my local paper today from legislative reporter Tom Fletcher speaking about the horrendous injustice the greedy teachers are doing to the fabric of our society. His first inflammatory statement is about teachers and their “Korea-style political indoctrination” of students.  In summation he accuses teachers of brain washing their students into believing their teachers are being abused. Fletcher then goes on to implore people to get educated, and to begin this education with a Google search on “Study: Class size doesn’t matter”. Despite this clearly reliable and unbiased key word search (insert sarcastic snort here) I agree. It’s time people became educated and this requires funding.

I received my high school diploma eleven years ago from a graduating class size that was over 500 bodies large. Most of my time as a student in Vanier was not spent inside the school but instead in the “portables”. Reliable heating during the winter was a crap shoot and proper seating was a joke. Our textbooks were old and overused without enough to go around. Now keep in mind this was ELEVEN years ago. With all the school closures and cuts in funding I can only imagine the deplorable conditions of education now-a-days, which is a huge contributing factor in my choice to homeschool my children. Homeschooling aside I think the biggest issue in this teacher vs. government fight has nothing to do with education or wages, benefits or government expenditure. I think the biggest issue that people are ignoring is the government’s erosion of workers’ rights.

Whether you agree with the teachers or not I have a huge problem with the government legislating anyone back to work. First it was Air Canada, then it was the Postal service, now it’s the teachers – oh and Air Canada again. Where does the government get off thinking that they have any right to take away the voice of workers? Do we not live in a free and democratic society? Can Canadians be silenced so easily?

The government claims they have to legislate people back to work because these services are essential! Essential? My husband is RCMP and without him law and order is disrupted and there is a risk of injury or death for the everyday average Joe. That is essential. But here’s the thing. We have a government who’s more than willing to strip your rights and force you to work in whatever condition they see fit; and everyone seems to be ignoring this! I can’t for the life of me figure out WHY that is. We elected them to run our government not to micromanage our lives and careers.  So if you can’t support the teachers then stand up instead for your basic human rights. Back-to-work legislation is really just a form of slavery. If they can legislate you back to work under threat of fine or jail today, then they can legislate you to work harder or under dangerous conditions tomorrow. It’s a slippery slope and I for one refuse to sit around and say nothing. Canadian apathy has reached an all-time high and it’s disgusting.

Birthdays and Biopsies

I cut his hair myself, shave it short – cop hair - because its thick and unruly and he has issues with trust and electric razors.  His green eyes are one of his best features and his full lips will be some pretty girl’s dream one day. He’s going to be handsome, everyone tells me so, but his most striking feature is his gorgeous smile. He’s a serious sort of kid, always absorbed in some sort of thought, so when he smiles and cracks his intense façade it’s adorable.

He’s only three – soon to be four (March 14^th) – and his strong and unwavering belief in what’s right and wrong never ceases to amaze me. He is the family’s moral compass and I have caught his father looking at him often with admiration and pride. Scott likes to boast that if there’s a child of his that will follow in his footsteps and become a police officer, it will be Gabe.

Truth be told, this statement terrifies me. Not my baby, I want to say, but I know Scott’s right. Gabe is too literal, too rigid in his understanding of what’s fair to avoid the draw of what his father does. Gabe likes to be a hero and want his closest family to see him as such. He referees fights between kids, he hands out warnings to his siblings about what is expected of them, and does his best to keep people safe.

He’s super sweet too. He can be heard saying “I love you” on a near constant basis, and will kill himself in numerous fake falls just so he can hear Preston’s melodious laugh. He picks up his toys when I begin to clean (before I ask him), he changes his own bedding when he has a nighttime accident, he thanks me profusely if I clean his room, or make him an extra special dinner; and If I pretend to be upset by something one of the children has done (Preston and Edie aren’t nearly as sympathetic as Gabe) he’s the first one by my side, stroking my arm and telling me that it’s okay. He loves to inform me that  I’m his “favourite” and that he wants to “keep me”. He melts my heart.              

He’s turning four (going on twenty) and I just wish he understood that being a kid is fun too, he needs to take a little more time playing, and a little less time correcting all the injustices in his small little world.  But if he really wants to he can continue telling me how much he loves and appreciates me… :) I won't complain.

Speaking of myself and not complaining (weak lead in…I know) I received one of my two biopsies. This was a core needle biopsy and the wait was the worst part of the entire process. The request for my biopsy was put in Dec 23^rd and by March 6^th I finally had the biopsy done. For those of you who have never experienced it I have to say that it wasn’t so bad for me. She cleaned the area, numbed me, sliced me with a scalpel so that she wouldn’t have to pierce the skin with the needle itself, and inserted the tip of the “gun” as the radiologist dubbed it into the hole she’d just cut. With ultrasound as her guide she found the lump, positioned the gun appropriately and fired a length of needle through the tumour gathering the needed tissue. She did this twice as the tumour was small (1.5 cm), and the needle was a 16 gauge. She then informed me that the look of the tumour on ultrasound and the smell…yes “smell” of the gathered tissue, reassured her that the tumour was benign. Now I’m not sure if she was being figurative or literal about the smell but I’m going to assume she knows what she’s doing!

Next week I should have the results and a date for my last biopsy; this one is an excisional (they take the tumour out). They are taking it out because it hurts and because it’s irregular shaped. I’m a little more stressed out over this biopsy because the ultrasound results weren’t completely reassuring... though my surgeon tells me that it’s most likely a “Complex Fibroadenoma"; however she also told me that the tumour “requires” biopsy and anything that “requires” further testing freaks me out. I haven’t had the best run with luck, odds or percentages in the past five years, so I just want this all over with already. I hate “waiting”. Waiting is LAME. I just want answers.  

So anyway that’s why March has been a slow month for blogging, I’ve been busy with biopsies and birthdays! Hopefully April will allow more time for my writing!

I Suck at Parenting...

It's true. I suck at parenting sick kids. Normal mothers fawn over their sweet, ruddy faced child, whereas I'm more worried about containing the infection. I admit to slapping "contaminated" cups out of my healthy children's hands, and diving across furniture to cover a coughing mouth, and yes I have even been heard screaming "Do YOU want to get SICK?!" Ultimately, I come off looking like a rabid Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible - karate chopping cups, diving over furniture, screaming in slow mode ...

Truth be told, I have never confessed my dread of virus's to anyone. It's much easier letting people think I have it all figured out and that I am a parenting Guru; just call me Master Sensei! ;) But the sad reality is...illness is my Achilles heal. Yup, June Cleaver I am NOT.

Their snotty noses, raspy voices, and disgusting diarrhea poops make my first instinct one I'm not proud of. If I could - if it weren't obviously inhumane - I would treat their illness like something that had the potential to kill a million people if it ever breached the walls of my home!

Oh how I wish this were possible because the hard and fast rule of parenting a sick kid is - if one gets sick they all get sick! I have three toddlers and this translates to three times the amount of bodily fluids to clean up, not to mention three times the tears, oh and three times the paranoia...hello heart defect child lives here!.

But what if I could contain the infection..what if somehow I could prevent transmission...

Quarantine!!!

To do so effectively a person would have to follow a few steps. First and foremost isolate the carrier. Put patient Zero into a room that is easily sealed off *don't forget to wear a face mask and surgical gloves* and  remember that copious amount of ingested Vitamin C can never be wrong (probably). While the child is in lockdown resting comfortably, tape up some shower curtains and leave the room immediately. Once outside the area of contamination wipe down any and all surface that may have been touched, coughed, sneezed or barfed on!

Now don't forget about the tiny prisoner patient. They will need to be fed, bathed, and generally taken care of, so make sure to have a Hazmat suit on hand; one can always ask the CDC if they have an extra one laying around, and although this may insinuate intentions of terrorism - it's totally worth it. If obtaining said suit is impossible try surgical masks or holding one's breath when entering the room.  Above all touch NOTHING. If the child needs to be touched (to take a temperature or change a diaper) then throw on another pair of surgical gloves and burn all clothing afterwards.

It may seem as though these measures are extreme but a mother's sanity must be maintained at all costs, and being sick while taking care of sick kids is a torture I would not wish upon my worst enemy - Okay that's a lie.

Once the virus has run it's course then free the child.

Of course I'm not completely insane, I understand that I cannot in Canada in good conscience do this; plus the CDC refuses to return my calls. So I guess instead I will fall back on the old standby...

I will give them warm milk (ensuring no cross contamination occurs between the sick and the healthy), I will cuddle and rock the virus laden, tiny human (while breathing shallowly and heroically attempting not to pass out from lack of oxygen), and when they've spiked a fever I will put them in lukewarm baths smelling of lavender (while secretly plotting their next saline nose injection).

Yes I know how this all sounds - but I am not a germ-a-phobe! I'm just a parent who dreads the common cold as much as a single person dreads Valentines Day.

Inevitably it will all boil down to tears, snot, and liquid medication...

Love and Life

To My Loves for Valentines Day,

     Before you swept me off my feet, I was a leaf upon a trembling branch caught between seasons. I held stubbornly to the life I had always known, too afraid to look down, and oh so terrified of letting go. Soon, a sky full of color billowed around my face, as one by one, those I'd  grown up with entered a new season of their lives and left my quaking side. I did not know how to follow their lead, and faked the flight all beside me took so willingly. But in truth, I still held desperately to the tree that was yellowing my silky skin, and crumbling the tough stem of my resolve.

    Then from the west a wind began to whip around my wilted frame, breathing new life into my aching soul. You wrapped yourself around me, gently tugging, until finally I flew with you. I twirled and danced upon your confidence, free at last to explore the world around me. Graceful and lithe, we remain, forever a leaf caught in the wind. You my sweet husband, will always be my fall - a head over heals tumble that freed me from my lifeless state.

   With great anticipation I looked forward to the spring where new life would sprout and grow. The wind and I had worked as one, and the soft kisses of his breath placed me gently upon the ground. I settled in and sank beneath a piece of earth I would claim as "home". I changed completely then, from wind blown leaf to fertile soil, and soon I could feel new life pulse within me. A gorgeous and delicate flower breached the surface of the world, and at once I was anew. I would nourish you, my son, in every way I could. A life built from my own. I will always think of you Dear Gabriel, as the spring that enriched my world and introduced me to the possibility of renewal.

   The breeze gently blew around my son and I, whispering 'I love yous' and bringing relief from the relentless heat. And soon I was aware of another seedling beneath my soil, a gift from my beloved wind. She grew lovely and strong, and I was left breathless and dumbstruck by all that I had. This summer flower grew more quickly than the springs cautious bloom, developing at an alarming pace; and you little Edie, soon intertwined your roots with Gabe's, and we all grew as one. And so, my Dearest daughter, you will forever be the summer that created a garden from our little piece of nourished soil, a true and vibrant Eden.

   The winter came and I was aware of one more precious life within me. But when he began to sprout a defect within his stem stopped him from a full emergence into this bright and wonderful world. Before I could stop the change, my soil began to freeze and all nourishment from my ice encapsulated heart just stopped. Winter was upon me, and he was not at all what I was promised. I felt that I was once more, a leaf wilting on the branch, scared and frightened from all that was unknown.

    But within me a courage I had never met revealed a heart not dead from fear, but only in hibernation - a defence to the cruelty of nature. Beneath that frozen soil I discovered that my heart was not glacial, but instead beat so ferociously that the ice surrounding it, melted faster than it accumulated. And so my precious Preston, you will forever be the winter that taught me nourishment is not enough, a strong and ferocious heart is also needed.

You are all the seasons of my life, and I will nourish you for as long as my beating heart will allow. And when it's time I will float above the earth once more, dancing upon the clouds, no longer afraid to let go, for love was my life, and my life was lived.

This house

I shake my fist at the heritage artifice that is my home, often times cursing it's poor construction and my naivety at being a first time home buyer. I like to fantasize about leaving it and finding some land with a farm house nestled in it's center. Already, I live there most days, on this fantasy farm, picking fresh fruit and calling to my giggling children...

but something unexpected happened...

I choked up.

I fought back tears when Scott suggested we might have to go sooner than I was prepared for. Leave? I chastised myself of course. Home is where the heart is - My heart is with them, with my sweet, beautiful, loving kids, and him, the husband.

But a part of me revolted against the reality. Leave my home? But what about the measurements on the wall, and the hardwood floor that has seen so many firsts, and we can't leave the bath I laboured in, or the yard they play in...


This house - It's only three years old, and I have lived here it's entire life. A lifetime that has been spent standing tall and proud during some of our family's most awe inspiring milestones, while also sheltering us during some of the worst trials we have ever endured.

It's a stubborn little house. A house with personality. And somewhere along the line this heritage artifice etched a place into my stone heart, cracked my hard facade and safely encased a million memories.

These walls, they whisper to me, they tell our story and if we leave it...will I somehow forget it all? So many events, so many beautiful, gut wrenching moments, so much Life. How can I step away from that so easily?

It would seem I can't...

And so I have come to the only conclusion I can draw...I love this place. I love it despite it's problems. I love it because it's more than a poorly constructed house... somewhere along the line it became a part of the family - and I find...somehow...my heart is here too, between these walls, drumming a percussive beat that flashes through memories and moments in a blink of an eye...a beat that simply says...

love them, love them, love them.

My Calloused Feet

The air is thick and humid and I'm sticky from my own salty sweat. The blackened asphalt beneath my feet seems - at first - to be a brilliant idea. The dirt and rocks have been replaced by a smooth and dustless road and the journey should be easier. Instead my steps are short and quick - my calloused feet - scorched from the summer sun's relentless assault on that blackened, heat absorbing asphalt; and I wonder whose idea it was - the insinuation that it's ever so easy.

There are times I find a cool patch of grass, to cool my blistered feet, to ease my weary body. I scrunch up my toes, digging them deep within the soft earth, trying my best to plant myself within the rich, forgiving soil. The respite is soothing. I enjoy the view from my little piece of greenery for I know - inevitably - that the march of life will continue on. I squint and place a hand over my eyes, a bystander now, watching those few that pass my resting place - looking at me enviously.

I want to raise a hand, summon them over, and share with them this place I have, but I know it's not truly mine to divvy up, nor theirs to accept. We all have our own roads to follow, our own aching feet to rest when it is time to do so. And I refuse to feel guilty about feeling rested, and ready for the road ahead. I deserve this little piece of Eden. I am still stung from the blisters that were raised and wept from the road I walked last year. And this grass it is my salve; and I am healing.

I place a hand over my heart and drum my fingers against my breast. The ache is gone. The fear has left. My son is safe.

Beneath my drumming fingers; however, a lump is felt. But please - I whisper - I want just a little longer upon this grass. Just a moment more to live without the journey, to walk without the scorching heat.  I close my eyes and wonder if it is time to step upon the blackened asphalt once more.

Time to journey on these calloused feet, to walk the road whose appearances are deceiving - for the journey is never that easy...

Potty Persuasion

What she would prefer to do in the bathroom - get into my makeup.

How hard is it to potty train a toddler? It's a piece of cake, simple really. When I potty trained my first baby (who is now 3 months shy of his fourth birthday) I put the potty in front of him, told him to pee and poop in it, and reminded him that diapers are for baby's not big boys. He got it. He hasn't used a diaper since. Accidents are rare for him, and he enjoyed the freedom and all the praise he received for doing his jobbies in a potty. Potty training should be called potty direction. Give the kid some directions and watch how easy it all is. Let them take the reins. Let them lead the way.

So I put the potty in front of Edie. Told her to pee and poop in it, and reminded her that diapers are for baby's not big girls. She didn't get it. I had to remind her every hour on the hour to use the potty. I had to bribe, cajole, threaten, beg, and perform goofy songs and acts to get her to even sit on the potty.

Potty training is HARD. Who the hell thinks this is easy - a piece of cake? Potty training should be called potty torture. I can't let her take the reins, or lead the way, because then I get panties full of poop, puddles of pee her brothers slip in, laughter as she runs from the accident she just left on my couch! She loves the praise I give her when she goes on the potty, but on the other hand she laughs maniacally when she pees all over herself and I have to chase her to clean her up. She's evil.

After a month of potty training - I ran to the Internet.( I needed reassurance that I wouldn't be cleaning poop off her prom dress!) I found so many tips that I wasn't sure what to do first. So I decided to cater my training towards my daughter directly. Edie loves Dora, and candy. So Scott picked her up a toilet insert (so she can pee and poop on a TOILET like her hero - me - while sitting on her favourite cartoon character - Dora!) and then I began bribing her with candy. At first I wasn't sure if this would be such a great idea, candy bribing I mean. What kind of mother would that make me? I'll tell you the kind of mother -  apparently I am the mother who will resort to obesity causing tricks to get my children to do what I want them to.

But here's the kicker! She hasn't had an accident in almost a week! I haven't had to clean up pee or poop of my hardwood floors, or off her brothers who were unfortunate enough to come upon her accident. I don't have to count to ten quietly while I change her pants, again. And I don't have to dread the morning when I pull off her nighttime diaper while preparing for the inevitable destruction of her clothes and all the fabrics in my house.

She has finally decided that going to the toilet (although more time consuming then finding a nice corner to crap in) is worth it...because she gets candy. Now I just have to find a way to slowly wean her off the reward system...

Potty training and all it implies is a lie. Toddlers will use the toilet when they feel like it. It's the one thing they have power over. You can't "train" a kid. You can only try to persuade them with whatever tools you have at your disposal! In fact that's what Potty training should be renamed.

Potty Persuasion!