Ninja Revelations

There's nothing quite like parent teacher interviews to bring out the guilt in children. You don't have to even be at the actual interviews for this to happen, you just have to casually mention in conversation that they're coming up. One by one, your children will soon seek you out to preemptively confess their school misdeeds. (But only if you're the Nice Parent. Kids never seek out the Mean Parent for their preemptive confession needs.)

These are some of the teary-eyed confessions that I - as Nice Parent - have heard over the years:

"I talk too much in class sometimes!"
Medium Fry, Grades 1 through - well, most likely her entire life.

"I was kissing girls!"
Small Fry, Preschool through - well, most likely his entire life.

It is really, really hard not to laugh. (But you can't laugh! Laughing would be detrimental to the whole process.) They are just so sweet and honest, and can Mean Parent *pwease* not come to parent teacher interviews, only you?

In the vein of talking too much "sometimes", Medium Fry has always been highly forthcoming about her confessions. Like, endless dramatic narrative about not being allowed to sit beside so-and-so at carpet time... or having to move to a different table from so-and-so... or completely missing a track and field heat and having to run against an older age group because she was too busy chatting with so-and-so to notice they had been called up. The force is pretty strong with this one.

Small Fry's confessions, however, are more varied in nature and tend to require some teasing out in order for the full scope of the confession to become apparent:

He comes into the room slowly. Gives Mean Parent a cagey glance. Edges surreptitiously over toward Nice Parent. Climbs onto Nice Parent's lap. Whispers in Nice Parent's ear, in that sortof damp and not-actually-quiet way that kids whisper, "Mommy, I need to tell you a secret."

I whisper back, in proper non-damp form in hopes he will get the hint one day (he doesn't), "What is the secret?"

* * *
 
"I had to put my head down on my desk."
"Why did you have to put your head down on your desk?"
"Twice."
"Okay, why did you have to do it twice?"
"For different reasons."
"But what reasons?"
"... I was talking too much with Sachiv when the teacher was talking."
"Okay, what is the other reason?"
"... I don't want to tell you."
"Do you think you should tell me?"
"I was fighting with Tyrel."
"But Tyrel is your friend. Were you real fighting or just play fighting?"
"Real fighting."
"Why were you fighting?"
"Because he asked me to."
"... So you were play fighting?"
"Yes. But for real."
"Were you being ninjas?"
"Yes."
"Did anyone get hurt?"
"No."
"Um..."
"Don't tell Dad."

* * *

"The gate is broken."
"What happened to the gate?"
"The lock thingy was a little bit stuck."
"That's okay, sweetie, we can fix a stuck lock."
"But I was fixing it already."
"How were you fixing it?"
"I was hitting it."
"... ?"
"... with a brick."
"Ah. I see."
"Don't tell Dad."

* * *

"It's not fair! They were kissing me first!"
"That again?"
"Don't tell Dad."

* * *

So far, I always tell Dad. I suspect he experiences some secret little flush of filial pride over the kissing girls business. Plus I'm not gonna fix the gate. 

Patent Pending

Medium Fry - whose blog handle I may have to change one of these days to reflect the fact that she's 15 now and about as Large as she's ever going to be - joined the school choir this year. Choir, choir, choir, everything is about choir these days. I was plotting a conversation about birth control, but then she joined choir and I was like - naaah. We're good for another year.

I was in choir too when I was a kid, but this is some kind of all-girls, age-group, competitive choir. There are uniforms, steep enrollment fees, weekend training camps (plural! what could this possibly entail?!), and before and after school practice sessions at various times during the week. Good lawd. When I was in choir, it was because some kind of music class was mandatory and we were too poor to afford an instrument. It wasn't, like, a lifestyle choice or anything. If I had had to get up at 5:30 on Wednesdays to make it to early practice or stay after school on early dismissal days for late practice, I simply would not have done so. Early dismissal days, people! Not a fukken chance I would be at choir practice! But Medium Fry is all over the choir thing, so she puts herself to bed early on Tuesday evenings and is on public transit by 6:30 on Wednesday mornings. Because choir. (Also because whatever voodoo curses my mother tried to put on my future offspring when I was a teen clearly didn't pan out.) (I'm too scientific for that.)

Here is the best part: Medium Fry makes herself a fortifying hot beverage for her groggy commute on Wednesday mornings. Nope, not a coffee. Not even a tea. A hot chocolate. Isn't that super cute-larious?

Even more cute-larious, she sometimes puts a little instant coffee in her hot chocolate (decaf! she was quick to point out, as if she somehow believed that I - of all people - have something against caffeine): "It's really tasty! It's like Coffee Crisp! You should try it sometime!"

... just so darn cute that I wasn't sure how to break it to her that mocha is pretty old news. I made a Noncommittal Mom Sound* instead.

To be fair, I think I've invented things all the time. But no matter how amazing my inventions are I try to stay grounded in the notion that, statistically speaking, they're probably not new at all. I mean, there are a lot of "makey" people in the world; what are the chances I've beaten them all to it? Not that that stops me from wanting to share my inventions with people; it just stops me from actually sharing my inventions with people. For instance, I know for a solid fact that I didn't invent my most recent invention, but I still have trouble containing myself over it. I actually want to stop strangers on the street and tell them about it.

As a matter of fact, I crafted an entire blog post around telling people about it: watching a TV series makes working out suck SO. MUCH. LESS.

Yep, I know, everyone else in the world already knew that. Still, it was utterly game-changing to me when I discovered it last week. So as I was driving home from the gym early Wednesday morning (after a substantially-less-boring-than-usual workout!) and I passed Medium Fry standing at the bus stop with her go cup of mocha, I did not make a Noncommittal Mom Sound* about it. I rolled down the window and yelled, "RESPECT!"

* Patent-pending. But not really.

Call of the Wild

Or: On the Eighth Day, Let There be Leggings!

Walking into an oil town pub or a camp dining hall is sortof like having a bear encounter: in both scenarios, you are aware of being relegated in status down to mere "meat". I mean, no matter how tarted up I am in downtown Calgary I barely get an occasional second glance, but I can be just as grimy and sweaty and "practically" (i.e., strangely) attired as you please in, say, Fox Creek, and it is openly lascivious ogling all around. My friend (or, more specifically, her butt, in some leggings) nearly caused a riot at a hotel breakfast bar. Every female colleague of mine has experienced the same phenomenon, and I don't think any of them finds it flattering. At best, it's mildly amusing; at worst, disturbing - and even a little bit scary.

Bear, cool, I get it man, I'm in your space and I'm (slowly!) getting the hell out of here. Men, though: what the hell? Is there something about oil town living away from home that causes these fellows to go a little feral, or - as DH suggested - is it just that they were the dregs of society to begin with and have been unnaturally concentrated in oil towns due to their professions, so's that one notices them more?

Neither hypothesis seems very generous. Handily, I do a lot of living away from home during the field season, so I might have some insights into the phenomenon of going feral due to this bizarre natural experiment I conduct on myself every year.

I know I definitely start to get a little weird after a long field stint in the boonies. Weirder still if I'm working alone, as if the lack of human contact decalibrates my social compass. I spend hours every day fantasizing about real food - I probably spent a full two weeks near the end of my field season last year daydreaming about cooking myself a lasagna, then eating said lasagna. Every day the fantasy would get a little more elaborate - no! Not the farmer's market! I will use vine-ripened tomatoes from my own garden to make the sauce! Unnhhhh...

I do make a mean lasagna but I usually don't have the attention span to agonize over the origins of my sauce tomatoes, so this is pretty strange behaviour for me. Feral? Perhaps I was a short distance down that slippery slope... but when those men are leering at you while you eat your mashed potatoes as quickly and unsexily as you are able to, it is clearly not lasagna they are fantasizing about. I figured I was not quite feral yet.

Right at the end of my field season last year, I was standing around on a project - I don't fully understand it but there is somehow a LOT of standing around that is done in pipeline construction - just dreaming about lasagna and wishing we could get around to actually doing something at some point that day. One fellow broke up his standing activities by removing his sweater, which bunched up his t-shirt slightly and left a small sliver of hip bone exposed between his jeans and shirt. Just a little peek. Just a one-inch sliver of taut, tanned, male flesh...

I literally could not take my eyes off of it. The two weeks I had invested in an emotional affair with homemade lasagna were forgotten in an instant. I wanted to eat this guy instead.

Suddenly, I was off the deep end. I really needed to go home.

So when my friend was innocently causing the complete mental breakdown of a roomful of breakfasting riggers with her leggings, I flashed back to my deranged hip bone moment of the year before and I had an inkling of comprehension of how these fellows were feeling. She does have a great butt, after all - and everyone goes a little feral eventually.

Good Grief

The 7 Stages of Dealing with New Government Policies

Disbelief
"They can't possibly mean what they're saying here."
"This is going to take forever to do."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Denial
"My project is clearly grandfathered in."
"Nope. Nope, nope, nope. There is no way I'm doing that."
"This guy has no idea what he's talking about."

Anger
"The guidance documents aren't even internally consistent!"
"How can they possibly expect this of anyone?"
"You've got to be fucking kidding me!" 

Bargaining
"Can't we just throw some money at this?"
"Maybe if I just try this instead..."
"If You just get this application through, I swear I will never do another one ever again. Amen."

Guilt
"I have a bad attitude."
"I don't even care about the environment anymore, I just want this project to end."
"I wish I had measured the diameters of those shrubs better."

Depression
"I am so over budget."

Hope
"Hm, this report is pretty sexy... maybe it will go through after all..."
"Well, at least we have a template now."
"Aaaaaand - invoice submitted!"

The term "stages" is somewhat misleading, as it implies a stepwise progression. In reality, these are more examples of emotions a consultant may experience when dealing with New Government Policies, and not all individuals may experience all of these reactions. Conversely, some consultants may feel much more Anger than others. It is common for an individual to fluctuate wildly between the different "stages" as they learn more about the New Government Policies and how they are being randomly interpreted by different people in the same damn regulatory body implemented.

If New Government Policies are troubling you, you may find venting over a bottle of wine with a colleague helpful. I'll drink pretty much anything red. Call me.

Small Town Saturday Night

I don't have super high expectations of motel stays in small towns - I've learned that aiming low generally seems to be a decent way to approach most of life's slightly sketchy situations. You're much less likely to be disappointed (or disgusted) and much more likely to be thrilled about things that others with higher expectations of the world might have erroneously come to view as standard, like a working mini-fridge, say, or pillows that don't smell like they've been deep fried.

Come to think of it, lowered expectations may well be one of the key reasons I’m such a happy person. A more particular individual would have to write a scathing online review instead of a cheery blog, plus pay a lot more money for a better room somewhere else. Maybe somewhere they don’t fry their pillows.

But some things fall short of even my low bar. For instance, there is nothing quite like checking into a small-town motel at the end of a long day, only to discover popcorn and “hairs” IN the bed. I didn’t even know what my low bar was, exactly, until that moment of discovery, but it was immediately clear to me that IN the bed happens to be precisely where I draw the line.

My second thought after discovering my low bar setting was, “Aw, that guy must have been lonely.”

Another moment of clarity: apparently I feel like I can divine a lot about someone by the motel room debris they have left behind. Just imagine what the folks who actually clean (or in this case, “clean”) the rooms must know about their temporary tenants!

Third moment: I solemnly resolve to be more aware of the forensic judgement opportunities I present to cleaning staff.

But if I were to leave behind motel bed fillings for some other plucky traveler to find, what would really speak to my motel experience, in the way Mr. Prolly Jerking Off While Watching a Shitty Movie’s popcorn and pubes seemingly spoke to his? I’ve given this some serious consideration the past few days, and I propose that my motel story would best be told with Triscuit crumbs and dessicated plant fragments: 

Ms. Late Night Botany Session.

Ohmmmmmm...

The nature of impermanence: parenting edition*.

a. Amount for eligible dependant - check.
b. "You're the bestest Mommy ever!"
c. Age 4.**
d. Chores Chart.
e. Fresh batch of cookies.
f. "Everyone empty their bladders before we leave."
g. Wow, no one is sick right now.
h. "This is my favourite food!"
i. "My Legos are all picked up!"
j. The house is clea... aww.
k. The laundry is d.... aww.
l. This will be a fun craft.

* Decreasing exponential scale.
** Perceived time may be significantly greater than actually experienced.

Parent Hacks

Parenting hack: do stuff with your kids.

Actually, that's not really the hack. Here's the hack: you don't need to be crazy about it or anything - stuff you were already going to do in the first place works just fine. It'll take way longer and you'll need a glass of wine to cope with it the first couple dozen times, but eventually your efforts will pay off.

Oh, I guess that's my second hack for you today: wine. Lots of it.

I find cooking and baking are some things that are good to do. (You needed brownies, right?) My hope and expectation has always been that, eventually, the kids would gain some basic safety, common-sense and, heck, maybe even cooking skills. Maybe they could get themselves breakfast one day... pack a lunch without help... cook a meal for the family once in a while... not die of malnourishment in college. Y'know, the basics. I had a long game to meditate on when they were splashing pancake batter all over the damn place as toddlers.

Interestingly, I've noticed over the years that there are a ton of knock-on educational benefits associated with cooking that I had never even considered in my long game:

There's literacy: because "cookies" is an excellent motivator for sounding out that tricky word in the recipe, as is learning the deceptively big difference between cinnamon and cayenne.
Chemistry: proteins denature, carbon dioxide bubbles form, what the heck is Teflon anyway?
Math: fractions, measurements, conversions, ratios
Physics: phase changes, conduction, convection, surface tension, gelling
Biology: bacteria/safe food handling, nutrition, yeast, PMS

Yup, even PMS: the fact that we had chocolate-chip pancakes for supper once a month growing up was how my brother learned about the menstrual cycle. Kudos to him for noticing there was a pancake cycle; I filled him in on the back story. I'm certain he will make some lucky gal a fine husband one day - he learned early on to be very supportive of any female initiatives involving chocolate.

Final hack for the day: HERE is the easiest, kid-helper-friendliest, PMS-iest recipe I have on file.

Just think of how educated your child will be after helping you make these once a month for their entire childhood. You are an excellent parent. Go ahead, have some wine.