Category: home life

Birthday Cows #SOLC26 27/31

Ok, hear me out on this: when I started participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge years ago, I didn’t think things through to their inevitable end. I just started writing. But I’ve been at this for 8 years now, and every year March 27 arrives – and every year that day is my spouse’s birthday – which means that every year I have to decide if I’m going to write about him. 

He’s pretty wonderful, so the issue is never if he’s worth writing about (he is!); the issue is if I’ll embarrass him by writing about him (I will). He’s not big into birthday celebrations, and for the first few years I didn’t mention his birthday at all; my writing and his birthday did not need to occupy the same space, even if they occurred on the same day. But he is impossible to buy gifts for (today he picked up his own birthday cake and his own bottle of bourbon as well as a board game he’d been waiting for – how on earth do I buy a gift for someone like that?), so instead I’m going to share one little story to let you know the kind of human who has my heart.

18 years ago, when I was pregnant with our oldest, someone gave me the book The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy. It was full of great advice and funny anecdotes and I loved it. Andre, read it, too, because he was intrigued by the idea of reading what women might say to each other about pregnancy. Somewhere in the book, she talks about how it’s a terrible idea to moo at a pregnant woman. How did this come up in her life? I have forgotten. It was funny and silly and made me giggle which made Andre want to see what I found amusing. Now 18 years later, I occasionally come downstairs and find something like this in the kitchen:

Why is there a wooden cow on top of the coffee container in front of the vitamins? Because 18 years ago, this made me giggle. So now we have a wooden cow – and a stuffed cow, in case you’re wondering – and a cow mug. And when I’m least expecting it – for example, on the morning of his birthday, Andre might decide that he needs to moo at me. Probably while I’m drinking my tea. And even 18 years later I will start to giggle – and he will somehow think that this is a birthday present to him. Because that is the person I married.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Birthday Cows #SOLC26 27/31

Ok, hear me out on this: years ago, when I started participating in the March Slice of Life Challenge years ago, I didn’t think things through to their inevitable end. I just started writing. But I’ve been at this for 8 years now, and every year, March 27 arrives – and every year that day is my spouse’s birthday – which means that every year I have to decide if I’m going to write about him. 

He’s pretty wonderful, so the issue is never if he’s worth writing about (he is!); the issue is if I’ll embarrass him by writing about him (I will). He’s not big into birthday celebrations, and for several years I didn’t mention his birthday at all; my writing and his birthday did not need to occupy the same space, even if they occurred on the same day. But he is impossible to buy gifts for (today he picked up his own birthday cake and his own bottle of bourbon as well as a board game he’d been waiting for – how on earth do I buy a gift for someone like that?), so instead I’m going to share one little story to let you know the kind of human who has my heart.

18 years ago, when I was pregnant with our oldest, someone gave me the book The Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy. It was full of great advice and funny anecdotes and I loved it. Andre, read it, too, because he was intrigued by the idea of reading what women might say to each other. Somewhere in the book, she talks about how it’s a terrible idea to moo at a pregnant woman. How did this come up in her life? I have forgotten. It was funny and silly and made me giggle which made Andre want to see what I found amusing. Now 18 years later, I occasionally come downstairs and find something like this in the kitchen:

Why is there a wooden cow on top of the coffee container in front of the vitamins? Because 18 years ago, this made me giggle. So now we have a wooden cow – and a stuffed cow, in case you’re wondering – and a cow mug. And when I’m least expecting it – for example, on the morning of his birthday, Andre might decide that he needs to moo at me. Probably while I’m drinking my tea. And even 18 years later I will start to giggle – and he will somehow think that this is a birthday present to him. Because that is the person I married.

Happy Birthday, my love.

Drivel #SOLC26 25/31

I need to write. Yesterday I only posted a picture. I mean, it was a good picture, but a picture nonetheless, which is only sort of a slice of life – though now that I’m thinking about it, a daily picture as a slice of life would be interesting, too. But that’s not this challenge, so today I have to write. It’s March 25. Only six days left in this challenge. I’m not going to stop now.

It’s just that last night I was so tired that I fell asleep right after work and  slept for 12 hours – even though March Break just ended two days ago, so technically I should be refreshed. And today I could have done the same, but that seemed  a bit over the top, so I’ve made myself stay awake, eyes at half mast.

It’s just that today was busy at school because we’re running the Literacy Test – which is always oddly confusing despite arriving at predictable intervals and being largely the same every time. And Wednesdays my student teacher is at school and I like to, you know, actually spend some time with her so she learns stuff.

It’s just that today is the chaos class, and even though they’re *much* better after our pre-March Break – ahem – discussion, they still require a lot of attention in order to make it through a full class with any sort of learning.

It’s just that after school the dog wanted an extra long walk because the weather is getting nice, and Mr. 15 needed an extra kick-in-the-pants to finish his work because, well, he’s 15, and my spouse needed extra support because his work is tough right now. 

It’s just that yesterday was a Heads Meeting and tomorrow is Teacher-Caregiver Conferences and it seems that there is always so much to do, even though I swear my to-do list gets longer every day. When do teachers mark student work? I no longer know.

At any rate, this may be drivel but it is written – and written is at least something. Maybe tomorrow I will write something better – but not tonight.

Packing #SOLC26 22/31

As I packed my bag yesterday, I followed my personal rituals, tailored to this particular carry-on: stashed socks in various corners, used t-shirts to fill the gap between the bottom bars, placed my toiletries bag on top of the clothes on the wheel end of the bag, made sure that underwear were not the top layer, in case the bag got searched, splayed open in front of passengers everywhere. When I realized I was reveling in my lack of actual shoes – sandals only for this trip! – and thus lack of decisions about stuffing socks in them, I remembered a long-ago argument with my sister. 

We were in college, and I thought I was quite cosmopolitan. I went to school in a big city (Washington, DC); she went to school in a college town. I had studied abroad and had a French boyfriend; she had not. I was a traveler, and as far as I was concerned, she was not. I was proud of my ability to travel just about anywhere with only a carry-on – something that I don’t think was particularly common at the time (cast yourself back to before 9/11, before fees for baggage – hard to imagine now). I had recently seen a magazine article about rolling up your clothes in order to cram more into your bag, and I was opining about how much I loved this new method of packing, about just how much I could get into a tiny space. My technique was flawless.

Diane Macdonald/Getty Images

Enter my sister. She had no time for my airs and mercilessly mocked my amazing new packing discovery. I remember her sitting on her bed, telling me how stupid it was and how much time I was wasting by rolling all those clothes. I tried to explain how this created more space; she said I might as well just toss everything in because it would be the same. I disagreed, she mocked, and we continued our back and forth until we fought. 

We were loud enough that my mother came in. She was used to our fights, often worse just before one of us left the other, so she didn’t even bother to point out the absurdity of fighting over how to pack a suitcase. Instead, she tried to mediate, but we were having none of it. Finally, exasperated, she came up with a plan: we would both pack the bag. First, I would pack my way; then my sister would pack her way. Most clothes in would win.

The game was on. Drawers were emptied. I folded, rolled and thrust clothes into the carry-on until it was bursting with clothes. I added more in the middle, less on the sides, and was just barely able to zip it closed. Triumph. Then, we cleared any unpacked clothes off the bed, opened the suitcase and dumped it out. My sister took her turn. She shook everything out until she had a giant heap of clothing. Then, she picked up the entire pile and threw it into the bag. She smashed it down, shoved a few bits into place, sat on the suitcase and smugly zipped it closed. 

My mother declared that both methods allowed for an equal amount of clothing in the carry-on. I was furious; my sister, exultant. My mother looked at her two oldest children, both of us students at prestigious institutions of higher learning, and did not say that we were petty and shallow and utterly ridiculous; instead, she simply said, “Kim’s method is faster, but Mandy’s means the clothes aren’t wrinkled and unwearable.” Then she left.

I don’t remember what happened next. I know I was a clothes-roller for a little while longer, but I reverted back to regular folding pretty quickly; I want to believe that my sister never simply dumped a drawerful of clothing into a suitcase and left, but she might have. These days, she folds her clothes, too. Such a silly, silly fight – and I have no idea why I remember it – but I think of it often as I pack: folding, smoothing, and, yes, rolling some things up to fit in one space while I shove other things in into another, willy-nilly wherever they’ll go.

Packing Lists #SOLC26 21/31

Things that never made it out of my suitcase:

  • 4 pairs of socks
  • the “nice” shorts
  • 1 “decent” t-shirt
  • my least comfortable swimsuit top
  • airpods
  • 2 bras
  • mascara
  • student writing that needs to be graded by Monday
  • my second & third books

Things I found exactly where I dropped them the day we arrived

  • one pair of lightweight pants
  • one sweatshirt
  • shoes with laces
  • compression socks

Things to put in my backpack

  • book #2
  • a few scavenged seashells and three small pieces of sea glass
  • water bottle
  • journal – the seats are too small for a laptop
  • sand, whether I want it or not

Things I will not bring home

  • sunscreen
  • a half-full bottle of moisturizer, now empty
  • travel razor
  • regrets

Interrupted #SOLC26 17/31

A few days ago on Ethical ELA’s monthly poetry Open Write, I read a prompt that suggested we play with the idea of interruptions. I immediately thought it was a great idea, so I have been catching up on the series Lincoln Lawyer which two of my friends from college recommended, and I find it so compelling that I often end up watching right into another episode because boy do those writers understand the power of a cliffhanger, and, while Cayman doesn’t have any cliffs, the boys I’m with hopped out of the car tonight to look “over the edge” of the ocean (behind the grocery store where we’d stopped for more eggs – even though they’ve managed to eat 3 ½ dozen in two days; I suppose that’s less shocking if I tell you there are five of them and they are all 17 or 18 years old, but it is still a lot of eggs, and let me tell you, eggs are not something I have a lot of anymore (thank you, menopause), but aside from the fact that I can’t seem to follow even my own train of thought anymore, it’s really not so bad) and what was I going to say – don’t go look at the ocean when obviously the ocean is what we’re here to look at or, more to the point, to go in, and we are all happy that we don’t have to go in to school this week so we really might as well take advantage – which I think we did today because we swam with turtles and walked on the white sand beach and spent time with family and every time I thought I might have a minute to write I was wrong – interruptions abounded so here I am, writing at 11:15pm but I am getting it done because that is part of the deal and since the boys are dealing cards downstairs I’m going to shut the bedroom door and go to sleep or, if menopause rears her head, maybe watch Lincoln Lawyer but just for one episode, I swear.

Walking the Dog in Springtime #SOLC26 9/31

Walking the Dog in Springtime
(after Frank O’Hara’s poem “Having a Coke with You”)

is even more ridiculous than walking home from daycare with a toddler
or scouring the pavement for that one glove, lost in the last week of winter
partly because he has to smell every inch of newly-exposed mud
partly because of my desire to breathe in the rain-washed air, partly because of his desire to breathe in everything
partly because of his enthusiasm for the disgusting remnants the melting snow has revealed on the edge of the sidewalks
partly because I have to pull him away from all the people and dogs that are also out enjoying the sunshine
it is hard to believe when I’m with him that there can be anything as still
as unforgiving as an icy walkway possibly studded with salt
in the warm Ottawa 2 o’clock light we are wandering through the neighbourhood
like neurons connecting through sunlight

*I stayed home sick today, but I still had to walk Max. We had a lovely midday meander.

Tuning in #SOLC26 6/31

After I broke my wrist in December, I took a few weeks off from walking the dog. In fact, I took a few weeks off from walking at all; I had no desire to find out what might happen if I slipped on another patch of ice. Can one break a currently-broken wrist? What if I slipped and broke my left wrist? What does one do with two broken wrists? I decided that I didn’t want to know the answers to these questions so, since Ottawa is definitely icy in the winter, I stayed home and “let” my partner and the kids walk the dog.

The children were compliant but not thrilled with their new duty. Mr. 15 wondered pretty regularly exactly how not icy it would have to be before I would take up my former duties. “Winter lasts a long time, Mom,” he stated bleakly. Mr. 17 tried to talk me into “just” using my left hand – but walking Max, our large energetic black lab mix, is a two-handed endeavour. Still, I missed my daily walks, so in mid-February I tentatively rejoined the dog-walking rotation: anytime the sidewalks were mostly clear, I took the dog.

Things were different now. Where before walking Max was just something I did, now it required my full focus. I scanned the sidewalks for icy patches; I looked ahead to spot other dogs that might cause Max to pull on the leash; I checked the streets for any vans he might need to try to attack (he really hates vans and buses). To protect my right hand, I needed my wits about me, so I did not put in earbuds and listen to podcasts as I used to do. I didn’t even look for things to photograph – something I love to do. I just walked the dog.

Suddenly I could hear those much-detested vans earlier and help settle Max before they arrived. When the weather broke for a February thaw, I heard the birds. And I noticed anew that people who passed me spoke several different languages – one of the many things I love about our neighbourhood. When I felt steady on my feet, my mind was able to wander. I hummed songs and just sort of thought.

This morning, as my mind meandered, I remembered the first time I realized that headphones (or MP3 players, I guess, though I didn’t know it at the time) were going to change the world. I was walking down the Champs Elysees, trailing the students I had accompanied overseas. The iPod was relatively new, and several kids had brought theirs on the trip. As some of the boys exited yet another patisserie (I’d be willing to swear that all they did on that trip was eat), I realized that Ben was bopping down the wide sidewalk of the great boulevard with his ears full of his own music. He wasn’t hearing the language swelling and swooping around him or the street noises that rose and fell as we passed various stores or even the thrum of the traffic. He was taking in the sites with his own soundtrack. I’m not 100% sure, but I think I told the kids to take out their headphones and be in Paris. I know that at some point I gave up the fight. 

My objection seems almost quaint today. Now, students sit in class, an earbud in one ear, strategically hidden behind a shock of hair or under a hat. They are vaguely offended when I ask them, again, to take out their personal life soundtrack. During silent reading time, they insist that they “read better” with music on. When I ask, many can’t think of a time that they aren’t listening to something unless they are forced to take their earbuds out. They hate the “silence” and tell me it’s uncomfortable. In my office, most of my colleagues have something in their ears all the time so that they can “concentrate.” I, too, often go through the world with someone else’s voice in my ears. 

My broken wrist may have broken that spell for me. Sure, I miss my podcasts, but I am enjoying the space that I’ve found. I can’t call it silence because the world is full of sounds, I’d just forgotten that they could be enough. Maybe I’ll get sick of it soon. Maybe I’ll slip back into the sense that every minute needs to count as two – or that every minute is mine to control in some way – but I’m starting to think that maybe I won’t. I think that maybe it’s time for me to remember that the world provides its own soundtrack and that my mind is happy there. It turns out, I like the space that comes from being a little tuned out.

What to Wear on Wednesday #SOLC26 5/31

When I was in high school, friends of mine kept track of how many times our Chemistry teacher said a particular phrase. I think it was “um,” but surely that is too banal. Surely we had better things to do in Chemistry than tally the number of times our poor teacher hesitated every class period, day after day, right? Of course, we also kept track of at least one teacher’s outfits: ah, there’s Tuesday’s skirt! Right on cue, Thursday’s dress! And my sister’s class once united to torture a student teacher by tearing out their notes, day after day, then pretending she had not given the previous day’s lecture. 

Clearly, this was before cell phones.

I am now in my 50s, and some days I feel lucky if the students even notice if I’m in the room, but these memories explain this morning’s dilemma: what to wear to school? I have plenty of options, but it’s March and I am sick of every item of winter-adjacent clothing I own. Plus, of course, I couldn’t wear the green palazzo pants today because I want to wear them tomorrow when we have a guest speaker. Why do I need to wear those pants for a guest speaker who I’ve never met before and may never see again? I do not know, but this morning that was my only fully-formed idea about clothing. As a result, I stared longingly at the green pants for several minutes. 

Eventually, I reached for a black dress with white stripes, but I suddenly feared it might be my “Wednesday” outfit. I put it back, deciding that my safest bet was something navy – because when was the last time I wore navy? Minutes later, I realized that I probably hadn’t been wearing anything navy because I couldn’t find my navy shoes or any cardigan that coordinated even vaguely with navy. 

At this point, getting dressed – something that normally takes me no time at all – had taken me quite a bit of time indeed. I texted my carpool buddy that I was running late and, ignoring the nagging voice in my head – the one with a distinct Southern accent – that whispered “No white before Memorial Day,” I grabbed a white cardigan. I finally located my navy shoes, then ran downstairs to grab breakfast. I threw together a lunch, and took my breakfast to go. My carpool buddy arrived, and we headed off to school: me, confident that I was not wearing a Wednesday outfit and knowing that, at the very least, my shoes were appropriate. No tally sheets for this teacher!

No tally sheets, that is, unless my students are keeping track of days when I have completely forgotten to put on any make up. Sigh.

At least tomorrow’s outfit is ready to go, and – who knows? – maybe the guest speaker will be really impressed by my green palazzo pants. Maybe he’ll add them to a secret tally sheet of “really well-dressed teachers for a Thursday in March.” I bet I top the list for that one.