Assiniboia Co-op - W4M
We made eye contact in the Foreign Foods aisle. I know I felt a connection; did you? Tell me how many bottles of SPF 60 I bought so I can tell it's really you. Hoping to hear back...
Shaunavon Frosty Treat - W4M
Thanks for helping
me pick all those ticks off my clothes - you know what they say, a
friend in need is a friend indeed! So message me if you see this. Tell me what colours of flagging tape I had hanging out of my pockets to weed out spam.
Maidstone Motel - W4M
Haha, the walls are SO
thin here! I could hear you belching, which means you could probably
hear me farting. It's like we're already past that awkward 'polite'
stage together! Let's be gassy together, shall we?
Weyburn Boston Pizza - W4M
I thought it was cute the way you laughed nervously and let me in the restaurant anyway even though I pretty much looked like a homeless crazy person - pretty sure there was a spark there. Tell me why my pants were duct taped to my ankles to help weed out spam.
Oyen Subway - W4M
We made some serious eye contact over the veggies, and you didn't seem to judge me for my sunscreen-and-dirt 'stache or for getting a footlong sub and three cookies after a hard day of work, so we could probably get along alright. Let me know whether I had my sub toasted or not so I know it's really you.
Maple Creek Laundromat - W4M
There was you, washing your dirty coveralls, and there was me, shoveling taco salad like I just made a jail break from fat camp. We made awkward small talk over the folding table and tried not to notice each others' gotch. (I hope you only noticed my good ones, not my field ones, haha!) Let me know what colour the mystery sock that ended up in my load was so I know it's you.
Ponteix Bakery - W4M
I'm not actually pregnant, I just said that 'cause you were the only place open for a hundred miles and I wanted to pee in a real
toilet instead of just in a field for a change. So, like, let's hang out
sometime - I'm dying to know why the apple pie tastes sortof like onions!
Unity Prairie Moon Inn - W4M
We joked about the
rubbery eggs and flaccid bacon in the breakfast buffet, even though I
was wearing three-day old muddy clothes and everyone else seemed to be
giving me a wide berth (possibly due to the faint boggy odour). That was
real civilized of you. Maybe drop me a line sometime. Make sure you say what
colour my Nomex were so I can tell you're you.
Swift Current Canadian Tire - W4M
I
bought a lot of zip ties, bungee cords and duct tape and made a joke
about building my field bondage kit; you backed away slowly. I know
someone playing hard to get when I see it, you sly devil! (Or at least I
think I do - it's been so long since I interacted with humans I'm
starting to wonder a little, haha!) I hope you see this and contact me.
Provost IGA - W4booze
It was sweet of you to let me know I had mud in my ear and was bleeding lightly. I mean, I already knew those things 'cause it had been a rough day, but you seemed genuinely concerned. We could get a drink or something - I could really use some this week. Like about twenty. Let me know whether I used a cart or a basket so I can tell it's you.
Lafleche - W4COFFEE!
Seriously, is there nowhere to get a cup of coffee around here? This is insanity. I would kill for a double double. KILL. Also a pedicure. Don't bother calling, 'cause I am NEVER coming back.
Calgary
I'm never wearing sunscreen or bug spray again, ever.
... Until next year.
OMG I miss the field already.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Sunday, May 11, 2014
So This Is Mother's Day
DH rolled over in bed yesterday morning and said, "Welp, I guess we had better clean the house today so you can have Mother's Day off tomorrow."
Wow, eh? I'll bet you're impressed all to heck. So was I, until he announced a short while later, "I cleaned the bathrooms," then settled in on the couch for the day with his laptop.
Oh. So not, like, the royal "we" at all. Or even the sortof egalitarian "we" one might foolishly hope for when it comes to the divvying up of household duties. More like... "me."
I worked extra hard yesterday to make sure all the housework and laundry were done so the fam could "give me the day off" today. At one point - I can't quite recall whether I was washing floors, cooking, vacuuming, dusting, washing walls, bathing Small Fry, making a grocery list or cleaning the kitchen at the time - DH looked up from the couch and said, "Oh yeah. I started the laundry, too."
In case your level of impressed-ness has just jumped back up to "we'll clean the house" levels, please allow me to clarify the statistical dishonesty that is "I started the laundry." "I started the laundry" not only makes no claims as to the degree to which the laundering is or ever will be complete, it doesn't even hint at whether the intent actually exists to complete it. Nor have any promises been made regarding the quality control methods employed. (Are my clothes wrinkly as all hell because they have been sitting in the dryer for three days? Are my t-shirts nipple clamped to the drying rack? etc.) In short, "I started the laundry" is right up there with 'Up to 70% Off!' and 'Lose as Much as 20lbs!' in the annals of misleading advertising claims:
But don't cry for me, Argentina. If I hadn't done my standard (i.e., lion's) share of the housework (yes, including laundry) yesterday, I might have felt a weensy bit guilty about leveraging the bejeebus out of Mother's Day today. In fact, keeping all of yesterday's toilings firmly at the front of my mind gave me the emotional fortitude today to whine like a big fricking entitled baby about pretty much everything my heart desired: I wanna go to the peeeeeet stoooore. And also Urban Barn and Chaaapterrrs. Buy me this boooook. I want some froooozen yoooogurrrt. I wanna play Monooooopoly. I can't do yard work if I don't have any beeeeeer. Make me baked potaaaatoes for my special supper. I can't wash dishes on Moooother's Daaay! I reeeeallly need a baaaack ruuuub.
Seriously, best Mother's Day I've ever had. Ever. I'm already planning my itinerary for next year.
Wow, eh? I'll bet you're impressed all to heck. So was I, until he announced a short while later, "I cleaned the bathrooms," then settled in on the couch for the day with his laptop.
Oh. So not, like, the royal "we" at all. Or even the sortof egalitarian "we" one might foolishly hope for when it comes to the divvying up of household duties. More like... "me."
I worked extra hard yesterday to make sure all the housework and laundry were done so the fam could "give me the day off" today. At one point - I can't quite recall whether I was washing floors, cooking, vacuuming, dusting, washing walls, bathing Small Fry, making a grocery list or cleaning the kitchen at the time - DH looked up from the couch and said, "Oh yeah. I started the laundry, too."
In case your level of impressed-ness has just jumped back up to "we'll clean the house" levels, please allow me to clarify the statistical dishonesty that is "I started the laundry." "I started the laundry" not only makes no claims as to the degree to which the laundering is or ever will be complete, it doesn't even hint at whether the intent actually exists to complete it. Nor have any promises been made regarding the quality control methods employed. (Are my clothes wrinkly as all hell because they have been sitting in the dryer for three days? Are my t-shirts nipple clamped to the drying rack? etc.) In short, "I started the laundry" is right up there with 'Up to 70% Off!' and 'Lose as Much as 20lbs!' in the annals of misleading advertising claims:
 |
| Seems pretty legit to me. |
But don't cry for me, Argentina. If I hadn't done my standard (i.e., lion's) share of the housework (yes, including laundry) yesterday, I might have felt a weensy bit guilty about leveraging the bejeebus out of Mother's Day today. In fact, keeping all of yesterday's toilings firmly at the front of my mind gave me the emotional fortitude today to whine like a big fricking entitled baby about pretty much everything my heart desired: I wanna go to the peeeeeet stoooore. And also Urban Barn and Chaaapterrrs. Buy me this boooook. I want some froooozen yoooogurrrt. I wanna play Monooooopoly. I can't do yard work if I don't have any beeeeeer. Make me baked potaaaatoes for my special supper. I can't wash dishes on Moooother's Daaay! I reeeeallly need a baaaack ruuuub.
Seriously, best Mother's Day I've ever had. Ever. I'm already planning my itinerary for next year.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Awards Night
I think I do pretty well with keeping the hounds of parenting self-doubt at bay. I mean, the kids are happy, they're healthy, they're wildly attractive (hey - you can't tell me that doesn't make life easier for people) - I can't be screwing up that bad. Why worry? Nonetheless, I will confess to having a tiny, ongoing internal dialogue about them that takes the form of those "Voted Most Likely to..." quotes in yearbooks. Why? Who knows. I've never had a yearbook that featured "Most Likely" quotes and in fact, I don't even care about yearbooks. I threw mine out years ago.
Maybe it's that I sense how difficult an unfortunate personal meme would be to shake: "Oh, hi, it's Frank Jones, right? I remember you! You were voted most likely to PAAARRR-TAAAYYY! How's your liver doing after all these years?" Or, conversely, how depressing it would be to be constantly reminded that one didn't live up to an overly optimistic high school approximation of one's future potential - you mean you didn't succeed/become a model/live happily ever after? Awkward!
Whatever the reason, these little quips pop into my head whenever the kids exert one of their personal quirks at school. For instance, we already know Small Fry is Most Likely to Suffer from an Existential Crisis on a Given Day, but did you also know he's Most Likely to Cross Dress to Kindergarten? (Variously: skirts, jewelry, hair accessories.) Most Likely to Envision a Polygamous Future for Himself? (He currently has two wives and two girlfriends picked out of the kindergarten lineup - I can't imagine what's going to happen when he hits a classroom with more than ten kids in it.) Most Likely to Bring Gross Snacks? (Cottage cheese. Seaweed. Radishes. Sushi.) He's a crippling personal meme just waiting to happen.
Small Fry's class put on their spring concert last night. It was probably the best kids' concert I've ever seen - just sweet and fun and (importantly) not too long. When it was over, the teachers had a surprise for the kids: an awards ceremony. They were going to say a few words about each child.
Uh-oh.
First few kids, no problem: "Bobby is a great listener; thanks Bobby!" "Jane is very enthusiastic; thanks Jane!" "Fred is very creative; thanks Fred!" I started to relax. This was not going to be my nightmares realized after all.
Then the teacher presenting the awards speeches called out, "Next is Small Fry! Now, where are Small Fry's parents?"
Uh-oh.
This was unprecedented. I pinched my arm. Awake. Damn.
We raised our hands.
"I hope you plan to enrol Small Fry in acting classes, because he is an amazing actor! Good work, Small Fry!" He happily accepted his awards trophy and went back to his seat.
Whew. Crisis averted. "Most Likely to Make Butt Jokes" could be really tough to live down.
Maybe it's that I sense how difficult an unfortunate personal meme would be to shake: "Oh, hi, it's Frank Jones, right? I remember you! You were voted most likely to PAAARRR-TAAAYYY! How's your liver doing after all these years?" Or, conversely, how depressing it would be to be constantly reminded that one didn't live up to an overly optimistic high school approximation of one's future potential - you mean you didn't succeed/become a model/live happily ever after? Awkward!
Whatever the reason, these little quips pop into my head whenever the kids exert one of their personal quirks at school. For instance, we already know Small Fry is Most Likely to Suffer from an Existential Crisis on a Given Day, but did you also know he's Most Likely to Cross Dress to Kindergarten? (Variously: skirts, jewelry, hair accessories.) Most Likely to Envision a Polygamous Future for Himself? (He currently has two wives and two girlfriends picked out of the kindergarten lineup - I can't imagine what's going to happen when he hits a classroom with more than ten kids in it.) Most Likely to Bring Gross Snacks? (Cottage cheese. Seaweed. Radishes. Sushi.) He's a crippling personal meme just waiting to happen.
Small Fry's class put on their spring concert last night. It was probably the best kids' concert I've ever seen - just sweet and fun and (importantly) not too long. When it was over, the teachers had a surprise for the kids: an awards ceremony. They were going to say a few words about each child.
Uh-oh.
First few kids, no problem: "Bobby is a great listener; thanks Bobby!" "Jane is very enthusiastic; thanks Jane!" "Fred is very creative; thanks Fred!" I started to relax. This was not going to be my nightmares realized after all.
Then the teacher presenting the awards speeches called out, "Next is Small Fry! Now, where are Small Fry's parents?"
Uh-oh.
This was unprecedented. I pinched my arm. Awake. Damn.
We raised our hands.
"I hope you plan to enrol Small Fry in acting classes, because he is an amazing actor! Good work, Small Fry!" He happily accepted his awards trophy and went back to his seat.
Whew. Crisis averted. "Most Likely to Make Butt Jokes" could be really tough to live down.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Felinocracy
Day 1
Arrived at new residence. It lacks a certain level of majesty appropriate to our status, but will be satisfactory at least for the duration this short term placement. Appears to suffer from a complete and total dearth of cat hair - we have already made great strides in rectifying this deplorable situation.
We have settled in marvelously and with great dignity, and most of the humans have already grown accustomed to - and even seem pleased with - the honour of servitude. The large male human, however, retreated into a corner and commenced making deep growling noises immediately following our arrival. We are to understand that he is simply slow to acclimate to new situations and will settle down with time. In the interim, we have been warned to treat him gently and to give him space and time to adjust.
Day 2
I must commend the large female on her mastery of our preferred cuisine - the salmon tin juice was most excellent. It seems the humans even managed to craft a meal for themselves out of the remainder of the tins' contents. What could have been left after the magical elixir of salmonid was drained off is a mystery to us both, but it is pleasing nonetheless that they are so mindful of waste. They were rewarded with several head-butts and three coy tail swishes. I am certain they are suitably honoured.
We were plied today with treats, toys and extended grooming sessions with a splendid bristled implement of some sort. Overall, a delightful day! The large male was plied with a six pack each of beer and lint rollers, and seems somewhat less agitated than previously, although still less than friendly.
Day 3
A bit of a frustrating day. The large male seems to be doing his utmost to undo all of our hard work of coating each surface with a uniform layer of hair - he is almost maniacal in his use of lint rollers, and this afternoon drove madly around the abode towing a mechanical, roaring dervish. Sadly, the dervish succeeded where mere lint rolling had not and we must now redouble our efforts to mark these furnishings as our own. Otherwise, how will these poor humans remember us following our departure? A tragic circumstance. We must persevere, for their own good.
Day 7
The large male's will has finally been broken! He has abandoned his six pack of lint rollers and now simply reaches for his beers. He even petted my head briefly yesterday, for which I rewarded him with a most pleasing view of my anus. I am certain he could be fully domestiCATed (ha ha, a favourite little joke of mine there) if only we had more time to work with him, but alas, our temporary placement here is coming to an end. We are conspiring to bring the bristled instrument of grooming and pleasure with us when we depart, but are finding our lack of both opposable thumbs and pockets of detriment in this endeavour.
Farewell, human servants! I trust you have enjoyed our stay with you. May our copious shedding confound your mechanical dervish such that it eternally fails to remove all traces of our presence, and may you forever be reminded of us by occasional, inexplicable, tufts of cat hair floating gently through the air.
Arrived at new residence. It lacks a certain level of majesty appropriate to our status, but will be satisfactory at least for the duration this short term placement. Appears to suffer from a complete and total dearth of cat hair - we have already made great strides in rectifying this deplorable situation.
We have settled in marvelously and with great dignity, and most of the humans have already grown accustomed to - and even seem pleased with - the honour of servitude. The large male human, however, retreated into a corner and commenced making deep growling noises immediately following our arrival. We are to understand that he is simply slow to acclimate to new situations and will settle down with time. In the interim, we have been warned to treat him gently and to give him space and time to adjust.
Day 2
I must commend the large female on her mastery of our preferred cuisine - the salmon tin juice was most excellent. It seems the humans even managed to craft a meal for themselves out of the remainder of the tins' contents. What could have been left after the magical elixir of salmonid was drained off is a mystery to us both, but it is pleasing nonetheless that they are so mindful of waste. They were rewarded with several head-butts and three coy tail swishes. I am certain they are suitably honoured.
We were plied today with treats, toys and extended grooming sessions with a splendid bristled implement of some sort. Overall, a delightful day! The large male was plied with a six pack each of beer and lint rollers, and seems somewhat less agitated than previously, although still less than friendly.
Day 3
A bit of a frustrating day. The large male seems to be doing his utmost to undo all of our hard work of coating each surface with a uniform layer of hair - he is almost maniacal in his use of lint rollers, and this afternoon drove madly around the abode towing a mechanical, roaring dervish. Sadly, the dervish succeeded where mere lint rolling had not and we must now redouble our efforts to mark these furnishings as our own. Otherwise, how will these poor humans remember us following our departure? A tragic circumstance. We must persevere, for their own good.
Day 7
The large male's will has finally been broken! He has abandoned his six pack of lint rollers and now simply reaches for his beers. He even petted my head briefly yesterday, for which I rewarded him with a most pleasing view of my anus. I am certain he could be fully domestiCATed (ha ha, a favourite little joke of mine there) if only we had more time to work with him, but alas, our temporary placement here is coming to an end. We are conspiring to bring the bristled instrument of grooming and pleasure with us when we depart, but are finding our lack of both opposable thumbs and pockets of detriment in this endeavour.
Farewell, human servants! I trust you have enjoyed our stay with you. May our copious shedding confound your mechanical dervish such that it eternally fails to remove all traces of our presence, and may you forever be reminded of us by occasional, inexplicable, tufts of cat hair floating gently through the air.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Mercury in Retrograde
I'm sorry to hear that you don't like the maps we've provided. May I ask what it is specifically that you would like to see changed?
O...kay.
Okaaay...
Um...
Excuse me a moment, I'm not entirely sure I understand. Are you are suggesting we put a symbol representing each feature on top of the actual feature?
Why, that's just poor cartography.
Because that would make them easier to see in the field?
I'm afraid I have to disagree... I think -
Okay, I'll curtsy while I think, but I can't see how it will save any time. So as I was saying, we have high quality orthoimagery presented at 1:10,000 scale, and the features are denoted directly above the alignment, so it's just a matter of drawing a straight line down from the note...
But putting a symbol on top of the imagery at the location will obscure the feature...
It is the visual cue. It's the only visual cue. It allows the person in the field to compare what is on their map against what they're seeing on the ground. That's why we use imagery in the first place.
Okay, let's try a little thought experiment: you are standing in the field. You look at your map and you see a big purple triangle that is labeled 'wetland.' Now you look at the ground. Do you see a purple triangle or a wetland?
Right. And did the the purple triangle help you see the wetland, or would a picture of the wetland have helped you more?
No, and there's no use trying. One can't believe impossible things.
Well, it's after breakfast now so let's try to be sensible for a while, shall we?
What?
Well, I'm not sure what good it would do you to chop off my head at this point. You'd just have to have this same conversation with someone else tomorrow.
Yes, yes, you're the client, all ways are your ways, I get it, but...
Yes.
Oh, of course: yes, Your Majesty!
*click*
Sheeeesh.
O...kay.
Okaaay...
Um...
Excuse me a moment, I'm not entirely sure I understand. Are you are suggesting we put a symbol representing each feature on top of the actual feature?
Why, that's just poor cartography.
Because that would make them easier to see in the field?
I'm afraid I have to disagree... I think -
Okay, I'll curtsy while I think, but I can't see how it will save any time. So as I was saying, we have high quality orthoimagery presented at 1:10,000 scale, and the features are denoted directly above the alignment, so it's just a matter of drawing a straight line down from the note...
But putting a symbol on top of the imagery at the location will obscure the feature...
It is the visual cue. It's the only visual cue. It allows the person in the field to compare what is on their map against what they're seeing on the ground. That's why we use imagery in the first place.
Okay, let's try a little thought experiment: you are standing in the field. You look at your map and you see a big purple triangle that is labeled 'wetland.' Now you look at the ground. Do you see a purple triangle or a wetland?
Right. And did the the purple triangle help you see the wetland, or would a picture of the wetland have helped you more?
No, and there's no use trying. One can't believe impossible things.
Well, it's after breakfast now so let's try to be sensible for a while, shall we?
What?
Well, I'm not sure what good it would do you to chop off my head at this point. You'd just have to have this same conversation with someone else tomorrow.
Yes, yes, you're the client, all ways are your ways, I get it, but...
Yes.
Oh, of course: yes, Your Majesty!
*click*
Sheeeesh.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Hangry
A good friend of mine was appalled that no one had told her her feet would be a size bigger after she had a baby. It seems she had been fully prepared to grow out of her pants (or as fully prepared as one can ever be for one's youth and hotness to evaporate into thin air on short notice), but to lose her prized shoe collection? Ouch. "You knew about this! Why didn't you warn me?!" she cried. I hung my head in shame - I didn't
really get into the compulsive shoe purchasing thing until after I had Small Fry so it
hadn't occurred to me it could be such a problem. Now every time I have a parenting revelation, I feel obligated to share it with the world lest I let someone down again.
This week's parenting revelation is the Six-Year-Old Growth Spurt. Maybe it happens at five-and-nine-twelfths, maybe it happens at six-and-a-quarter, but happen it will. And it has caught me unprepared twice over:
One evening way back when Medium Fry was in grade one, she burst into tears and accused me of not packing her any lunch, all week. This was clearly not the case, as I sent her to school each day with a lunch so resplendent with food groups and healthful choices that teachers and classroom aides alike routinely complimented me on them - in short, not only did I send a lunch every day, I sent a Grade A Parenting lunch. Setting my wounded Grade A Parent pride aside, I delved deeper into the problem: as it turned out, after eating First Breakfast at home, followed by Second Breakfast at her sitter's house before school, Medium Fry would eat her entire lunch for Third Breakfast at recess time in the morning, leaving only her intended recess snack - usually an apple - for actual lunch, and nothing at all for the afternoon. By the 3 o'clock bell, she was beyond hangry at her terribly thoughtless mother who had "neglected" to pack enough food. Uh, who knew? For about three months following, I packed that wee six-year-old girl a lunch fit for a lumberjack with a bad case of tapeworms, which was just about enough to get her through the day most days. Our measuring wall documents the associated growth spurt that occurred at this time.
All these years later, we're coming up to Small Fry's sixth birthday on Saturday. Yesterday, he came downstairs in the morning weeping hysterically, with a disturbing combination of snot, tears and blood pouring down his face. For a few moments I believed it was his cracked lip that was the issue. "It's not my lip that's the pwoblem, Mommy!" he bawled. Well, what the heck was the problem? "I don't want to turn siiiiiix! I don't want to get old and diiiieeee! Bwaaaaa!"
Ah. I see. I had foolishly tried to apply chapstick, when what he really needed to appease his wounded little soul was... breakfast. You fooled me twice, six-year-old growth spurt - shame on me.
After destroying a turkey sandwich, two kiwis and a bowl of yogurt - a volume of food that I'm not convinced I could ingest in one sitting - Small Fry was back to his usual chipper and unconcerned self. He even wore a silver Mardi Gras necklace and a paper crown to school. (If only breakfast made us all so awesome.)
So, parents of the preschool set, let my experiences be a warning to you: the six-year-old growth spurt is a hungry beast. Signs and symptoms may be misleading. Keep your eyes peeled.
But don't fret about your grocery bills just yet - it'll be over soon, and your little one will go back to violating the laws of thermodynamics with their typical diet of crackers and air.
This week's parenting revelation is the Six-Year-Old Growth Spurt. Maybe it happens at five-and-nine-twelfths, maybe it happens at six-and-a-quarter, but happen it will. And it has caught me unprepared twice over:
One evening way back when Medium Fry was in grade one, she burst into tears and accused me of not packing her any lunch, all week. This was clearly not the case, as I sent her to school each day with a lunch so resplendent with food groups and healthful choices that teachers and classroom aides alike routinely complimented me on them - in short, not only did I send a lunch every day, I sent a Grade A Parenting lunch. Setting my wounded Grade A Parent pride aside, I delved deeper into the problem: as it turned out, after eating First Breakfast at home, followed by Second Breakfast at her sitter's house before school, Medium Fry would eat her entire lunch for Third Breakfast at recess time in the morning, leaving only her intended recess snack - usually an apple - for actual lunch, and nothing at all for the afternoon. By the 3 o'clock bell, she was beyond hangry at her terribly thoughtless mother who had "neglected" to pack enough food. Uh, who knew? For about three months following, I packed that wee six-year-old girl a lunch fit for a lumberjack with a bad case of tapeworms, which was just about enough to get her through the day most days. Our measuring wall documents the associated growth spurt that occurred at this time.
All these years later, we're coming up to Small Fry's sixth birthday on Saturday. Yesterday, he came downstairs in the morning weeping hysterically, with a disturbing combination of snot, tears and blood pouring down his face. For a few moments I believed it was his cracked lip that was the issue. "It's not my lip that's the pwoblem, Mommy!" he bawled. Well, what the heck was the problem? "I don't want to turn siiiiiix! I don't want to get old and diiiieeee! Bwaaaaa!"
Ah. I see. I had foolishly tried to apply chapstick, when what he really needed to appease his wounded little soul was... breakfast. You fooled me twice, six-year-old growth spurt - shame on me.
After destroying a turkey sandwich, two kiwis and a bowl of yogurt - a volume of food that I'm not convinced I could ingest in one sitting - Small Fry was back to his usual chipper and unconcerned self. He even wore a silver Mardi Gras necklace and a paper crown to school. (If only breakfast made us all so awesome.)
So, parents of the preschool set, let my experiences be a warning to you: the six-year-old growth spurt is a hungry beast. Signs and symptoms may be misleading. Keep your eyes peeled.
But don't fret about your grocery bills just yet - it'll be over soon, and your little one will go back to violating the laws of thermodynamics with their typical diet of crackers and air.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Actually, Everyone Abhors the Vacuum
Here is some parenting advice I have taken to heart: Kids like to feel useful, so give them meaningful things to do.
In fact, I have really, really taken this to heart. So much so that Medium Fry is arguably the single most useful child on the face of the planet. (Okay, here's some other advice I know to be true: I can't actually take credit for this. The formula is something like, I attempt some parenting business x her highly agreeable nature = hey, so far so good.)
Medium Fry is so useful that when she goes away for any length of time the entire household pretty much goes to hell. Nature abhors the vacuum of her absence so something fills the void, but it is an anarchic sort of something wherein her long list of chores simply doesn't get done. It's a real tragedy of the commons, of the sort one might typically encounter in a college residence:
- The recycling bin, the compost pail and the kitchen garbage resemble Jenga assemblages in their twilight moments - the unspoken understanding being that if it is your piece of trash that causes the tenuous pile to collapse, or even if you happen to be geographically proximal to it when it blows, you are the one stuck taking the mess out to the blue/green/black bin.
- The dishwasher ran twenty hours ago, but only when some poor sucker cracks and reaches in for a clean utensil will it be emptied.
- You wanna puke into a clean toilet? Have fun scrubbing it.
However, we are not in Res - not by a long shot. We are sprouting greys and making mortgage payments on a quiet suburban street in northwest Calgary. And Medium Fry goes away roughly every second weekend. How is it we seem unable to reach a sensible solution to this ongoing, rather trivial, problem?
Welp, I for one dig in my heels on pure principle: I do enough housework and damned if I'm willingly taking on any bloody more of it. Since the rules of the game state that acknowledging there is slack to be picked up would alert other participants that I noticed the slack and beg the question of why I hadn't been picking it up myself if it's so important to me, I've never exactly asked DH why he is digging in his heels on the matter. I basically figure it's because he's a damn man, and Small Fry does because - well, he's a damn five-year-old. (He's also legitimately too short, young and/or insane to safely do many of the things Medium Fry does around the house, even if he were capable of noticing they needed doing.) (But DH? No excuse.)
Medium Fry looks at us like we are the most useless humans on Earth when she invariably comes home to our Jenga-piles and cupboards devoid of clean dishes. I have a feeling she'll be the best roomie ever one day for some lucky college students, but we sure will miss her.
In fact, I have really, really taken this to heart. So much so that Medium Fry is arguably the single most useful child on the face of the planet. (Okay, here's some other advice I know to be true: I can't actually take credit for this. The formula is something like, I attempt some parenting business x her highly agreeable nature = hey, so far so good.)
Medium Fry is so useful that when she goes away for any length of time the entire household pretty much goes to hell. Nature abhors the vacuum of her absence so something fills the void, but it is an anarchic sort of something wherein her long list of chores simply doesn't get done. It's a real tragedy of the commons, of the sort one might typically encounter in a college residence:
- The recycling bin, the compost pail and the kitchen garbage resemble Jenga assemblages in their twilight moments - the unspoken understanding being that if it is your piece of trash that causes the tenuous pile to collapse, or even if you happen to be geographically proximal to it when it blows, you are the one stuck taking the mess out to the blue/green/black bin.
- The dishwasher ran twenty hours ago, but only when some poor sucker cracks and reaches in for a clean utensil will it be emptied.
- You wanna puke into a clean toilet? Have fun scrubbing it.
However, we are not in Res - not by a long shot. We are sprouting greys and making mortgage payments on a quiet suburban street in northwest Calgary. And Medium Fry goes away roughly every second weekend. How is it we seem unable to reach a sensible solution to this ongoing, rather trivial, problem?
Welp, I for one dig in my heels on pure principle: I do enough housework and damned if I'm willingly taking on any bloody more of it. Since the rules of the game state that acknowledging there is slack to be picked up would alert other participants that I noticed the slack and beg the question of why I hadn't been picking it up myself if it's so important to me, I've never exactly asked DH why he is digging in his heels on the matter. I basically figure it's because he's a damn man, and Small Fry does because - well, he's a damn five-year-old. (He's also legitimately too short, young and/or insane to safely do many of the things Medium Fry does around the house, even if he were capable of noticing they needed doing.) (But DH? No excuse.)
Medium Fry looks at us like we are the most useless humans on Earth when she invariably comes home to our Jenga-piles and cupboards devoid of clean dishes. I have a feeling she'll be the best roomie ever one day for some lucky college students, but we sure will miss her.
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