Red Tape

When my son was about 2 years old he did the most incredible thing.

Now, before you run screaming from reading this, let me say that I'm not generally the kind of parent who chirps about every tiny accomplishment made by my children. They are special, but I don't need to broadcast that fact to validate myself as a parent.

That being said, my son is quite unique.

He taught himself to read. Really.

My boy has an amazing memory and, for some reason, is gifted with language. He loves to play with words and understands subtle humour that many adults struggle with. Along with his linguistic prowess, he possesses a very short fuse. Frustration and anger are easily incited in him and he does not "cool off" as quickly or easily as most of his classmates.

Because of these anomalies, his father and I had him formally assessed a few years back, in an attempt to make some sense of how to best deal with his gifts. As a result, he has been officially designated as a gifted and talented student, according to the school board criteria.

Now his father and I are faced with some decisions: Do we keep him in his French Immersion school and continue with the existing program, or try to have him admitted to the Gifted And Talented Education program? We chose to apply for the GATE and see what happened.

We filled out various forms and submitted them along with an 18 page psych assessment report. It seems, though, that the report is not current enough, even though it falls within the 3 year range described in the program application package. They would like us to have another assessment done.

Apart from the fact that this means my son will have to undergo several more hours of testing, there is a tiny problem. It seems that the school board only allocates a certain number of assessments per school per year, and OOPS....you guessed it. My son's school has "none left". Now we're on the hook for arranging and paying for yet another round of testing by trained professionals, at a cost of at least $950! Needless to say, this does not make me happy.

I have worked for this school board. I understand the limitations of time and resources, both human and financial. There comes a time, however, when I become less than understanding and veer slightly closer to pissed off. I find myself searching for ways to politely ask for answers when what I would really like to do is grab someone by the shoulders and scream,"Why the hell are you making this so difficult? Can't you see my son just wants to be challenged at school?"

For the sake of my son, and my blood pressure, I will be calm. I will follow the proper channels. I will behave in a courteous and respectful manner, all the while wishing I could strangle someone with all this damn red tape.

33 years is a long time.

** I wrote this a year ago. It's now been 34 years, and the feelings are still the same. The only thing which has changed is that I've now been to 2 funerals, not just one. I'm hoping that's not a yearly trend. Thanks for reading, or re-reading. **

This morning as I was checking the fridge-mounted calendar, and my desk calendar, and the electronic calendar application on my computer, it dawned on me. Today is January 11.

Years tend to shrink and expand in relation to your milestones. Some anniversaries stack up rapidly, like those pesky birthdays - especially the ones ending in zero.

If you're talking life span, thirty-three years is not a long time. It's probably about the age when most adults are "grown up" enough to know where their lives are going. It's no where near middle age in terms of the life span of most people nowadays. At thirty-three you've likely met, and possibly married, your significant other. Maybe you've bought a home. A car (or several). Found your niche in the world.

In terms of marriage, thirty-three years means quite a bit more. It is a remarkable milestone. My parents have passed the 33 year mark and moved well past it. I hope to do so myself.

When measuring the years passed since the loss of a loved one, time is a strange concept. Thirty-three years ago today, my parents said goodbye to their daughter, my sister, at the age of barely 4 months old. She was born with a heart defect and did not survive the attempt to repair her tiny body.

I was only six years old, and yet I can still remember how strange it felt to have a baby sister one day, and none the next. Hers is the only funeral I have ever attended. I still recall seeing her tiny body in the casket and wishing I could make her wake up. I can't begin to imagine where my mother found the strength to come back to her three living children after burying one.

My second child shares her middle name. When my third child was born, I saw a physical resemblance I was almost afraid to acknowledge.

Every year on September 17, I think of how excited my sisters and I were to have a new baby in the house. And four months later, on January 11, today, I miss her.

Together again!

Shortly after I got married, 15 years ago, I met an amazing woman. We worked together as members of a catering team. Through years of career changes, marital changes, even citizenship changes, we have remained close friends. Although we don't see each other often, we keep in touch - and I must admit, she is much better at calling me than I her! 

"Joanie" is my real-life soap opera friend. She's one of those people who manages to attract more than her share of drama and excitement. Overseas work adventure. Car accidents. Not to mention the bizarre circumstances presented by her chosen field of work - she's a death investigator! There is never a shortage of conversational topics when she calls.  We share many things in common; sense of humour, taste in music, to name but two.

One of the things Joanie and I share is our love of Canadian Football; more specifically, a love of the Calgary Stampeders! While at university (just a few years back) I developed a fascination with the CFL. Since I live in a football city, it was natural to expect that I might watch a live game or two. Joanie and I spent many hours together, cheering "our team" from the cheap seats. When she left to pursue her career, I had no one with whom to attend games, so I watched on TV, or listened to the local radio broadcast. We'd share the joy of victory or the agony of defeat via telephone and email. 

At the beginning of this CFL season, it was announced that Calgary would host the Grey Cup  - the holy grail of the Canadian Football League. Fans from across the country make pilgrimage to "the big game" every year. Tickets are purchased (and not cheaply, I might add!) and hopes are raised that one's favourite team might make it to the big show. 

At last, the Grey Cup Festival Week is upon us. Sadly, my beloved Stampeders will not be on the field come Sunday afternoon, but my sister-in-the-stands will be joining me! Joanie is making the trek from clear across the continent to sit outside, in Canada, in late November, and revel in the atmosphere of the game we both love. Although "our team" will not be playing, we will enjoy the game. We will cheer. Possibly for the teams on the field. Definitely for the love of the game and the excuse to get together for a big ol' party!

I saw a man today.

I have often heard people talk about encountering someone who made such an impression on them that the experience stayed with them for a long time. I had not ever had such an encounter, until recently. I often wondered what kind of person it would be. My mind drifted off to visions of billionaires, rock stars or famous actors. Men and women who were known globally and admired (or perhaps, more accurately, idolized) by the public at large. My recent encounter was with none of those.

I walked into a room of about 1200 people, all of whom were waiting patiently for one man to arrive. I took my place in the crowd, about 50 feet from the stage on which this man would be seated. It felt as though the whole group held its collective breath as a small man made his way slowly up the stairs to his chair. He sat, arranged his clothing, and began to speak. The room remained silent but for the sound of his voice. He spoke of education, and the need for thoughtful contemplation in all things. He encouraged us to choose our pursuits carefully, and to be ready to endure suffering and obstacles in the name of those pursuits. He urged us to focus on our goals and to consider all sides and angles before acting. His messages were simple, but so profound. He was funny and endearing. He was so matter-of-fact.

In all this, he was the epitome of the ordinary human being, and yet the most extraordinary human being I have ever encountered. I hope never to forget how grounded I felt just listening to his words.

He is the 14th Dalai Lama.

Watch Out Mickey, You Might Be Next.

It's summer. People go on holidays.

Before said people can go anywhere, plans must be made and stuff must be organized. You know, the neurotic cleaning and sorting and general foolishness to ensure that the house is "in order" before one leaves for a vacation. My mother was so anal about the whole process that she would literally wash her way out the door as we left the house. Really.

But I digress... back to the getting of things in order.

This week as I scurried about, trying to round up passports and water shoes, and various other travel necessities, I was not alone. There was other scurrying going on. And chewing. And (shudder) droppings.

There was a mouse in my kitchen.

I could hear his little rodent teeth gnawing away behind my cabinets. There were tiny teeth marks on a potato in my pantry.

After cussing out every cat in the neighbourhood for crapping all over my yard and yet failing to keep the mice away, I packed all 3 kids into the van and headed out on an exterminatory mission - to find as much rodent removal equipment as I could fit into my budget and my vehicle.

After sanitizing floors and loading traps and plugging in ultra-sonic-mouse-repellent-thingies, I started to think. One of two outcomes was possible as a result of my actions:

1. I would not catch the mouse. It would nest, and inevitably, bump uglies with another mouse and take over my home with its filthy offspring while I frolicked away in the far north.

2. I would catch the mouse and its furry carcass would be waiting for my return, along with the unmistakeable stench of decomposing flesh.

Either way, I was screwed. So, I did what every rational, educated adult would do.

I dismantled my kitchen cabinet.

I hauled out my water-filter vacuum and filled it.

And then I sat in waiting for the hairy little bastard. What followed could be described as a combination of B-horror flick, performance art and general tomfoolery.

The result?

Stay the hell outta my house, vermin. I KEEEEL you!!

Go ahead and kick me.

I realize that by writing this, I will likely piss off at least half of all those who read it. You are entitled to your opinions, as I am to mine! That said, I proceed. 

I have secret. Maybe not a well-kept secret, but something about myself that I do not generally broadcast to the public. I don't like dogs. Usually, I can go about my daily life without even thinking about it, but occasionally something reminds me. 

There is a story my parents told me about when I was born. My older sister wanted a dog. So, when my mother came home with a new baby, my father came home with a dog. It was, according to the stories, a black dog with a white spot on his throat. He was appropriately named Spot.  

The dog grew, along with our family. Another sister was born. Our family moved. Twice. Somehow, over the years, Spot became more of a Smudge. His black colour changed to a mottled greyish brown. A brother joined the family mix. Years went by and we were forced to move again; this time cross-country. Spot was too old and in too poor health to make the trip, so it was decided that he be "put down".  And so ended my days as a dog person. 

In all fairness, I never really was a dog person. I always seemed to have a cat as "my pet". The dog was just there, as far as I was concerned. I didn't hate it, but it never really was as important as the cat. 

As I've gotten older, I have become less and less tolerant of dogs; or more accurately, people with dogs. For all of the legions of responsible pet owners, there are a handful of morons who insist on exercising poor judgement in regards to their animals. 

There are the "tough dog" types - with large breeds of dogs so poorly socialized that they are a menace to society. There are the thoughtless ones who let their animals run willy-nilly and defecate with abandon on public and private property alike, with no feelings of obligation whatsoever for cleaning up the filth left behind. 

Most infuriating to me are those of you (and you know who you are!) who insist on treating your dogs like tiny human beings. Dog spas. Dog hotels. Dog jewelry and clothing (*snow boots for sled dogs being an obvious exception!*). I mean, seriously. What in your tiny brain would make you think that your ANIMAL would enjoy any of this?? Remember, just a few years ago, evolutionarily speaking, these were WOLVES!!! They hunted. They slept outdoors. They rolled in, and ate, whatever foul smelling material they could get their drooling snouts into. 

And now? Now you feed them gourmet food, better than a lot of people eat. You brush their teeth. You massage them. You carry them in purses, for crissakes! But most bothersome to me are those of you who, in your infinite stupidity, insist on letting your dogs sit on your lap (or dash, or headrest) while you drive around the city. What incredible lapse of reasoning would lead you to believe that letting a live animal sit up in your face while you operate a motor vehicle is a good idea???

My big sister recently got a dog. Not just a dog, but a small, hairy lap-type dog. I applaud her for choosing to rescue her new pet from the pound, rather than perpetuating the cycle of breeding more and more animals when there are so many waiting in shelters to be given a second chance with a loving family. Nevertheless, she is now a lap-dog owner. If she ever makes the mistake of driving with the dog unsecured in her vehicle, I will personally put my boot in her bigger, older, law-enforcing ass.

My Mother's Wings

There's a joke that says a man should always meet his future wife's mother so he will know what he can look forward to. As the years pass, we become wiser, more patient, softer. It is the softness that I noticed recently while shopping with my mother.

I recall with great fondness many childhood visits to my grandparents' homes, spread hither and thither across Newfoundland. Each summer my parents would pack up the family car and we'd head out on our annual road trip. As we would approach my mother's childhood home, my sisters and I would crane our necks to compete to be the first to catch a glimpse of "Nan's house". It was always a surprise to see what amazing colour the house would be. My grandfather would paint the house almost every year, and always with a different colour. Purple, grey, green, blue... it was always a happy sight.

As we pulled into the driveway, my Nan would be standing in the doorway with her hands folded across her ample chest, anticipating our arrival. We would be greeted with large, soft, warm hugs and those wet grandmother kisses. I always marvelled at the softness of Nan's skin as her bare arms wrapped around my skinny childish frame. It was cushiony to the touch. Thinking back now, it reminds me of how a tiny, plump baby feels against your bare skin. Such a familiar, comforting sensation.

During my most recent visit with my mother, I noticed how the years are beginning to show their effects on her physical appearance. She's become conscious of the shape of her arms and how the skin there is losing its elasticity. Later that day as she was preparing to leave, I took my mother into my arms and held her just a little longer than usual. My mother may see an old woman with flabby wings; I see that softness that comes with a grandmother's hug.