Friday, November 28, 2008

Is it Hot in Here?

As it turns out, its hard to blog from down here in Hell, where I've been all this week. 

I won't bore anybody with the details of my early week, except to say that after 4 days of Kieran's high fevers, coughing fits not helped at all by his asthma medications, and a cough so horrible it could only be generated by the Sound Effects people at Paramount, we wound up with a diagnosis today of pneumonia.  

Just great.

Of course, today, even before the Dr. called with the bad news from his chest X-Ray, Kieran was already better and was playing with his cars rather than lying semi-comatose on the couch, only answering questions with blinks and sideways glances as he had been since Monday. 

Now,  I may not have pneumonia myself, but I will apparently never miss an opportunity to elbow my own way into an illness. If there is something going around, I just need to get it for myself, so naturally I'm sick as well.  As is Kaya, although even sickness does not dampen her easygoing personality. She will sit happily on the floor, fever raging and in a pool of snot, quietly trying to cram a block into her mouth and smiling when you talk to her. 

But this morning was bad. After I sadly made my phone call to his babysitter to say that Kieran would be missing yet another day, Eric took pity on me and told me that he was still owed a half day at the office and could easily take the afternoon off, thus giving me a break to get outside the house and away from sick children. So, I whiled away the morning just doing laundry and waiting until he got home so I could take a leisurely shower instead of one where I had to keep one ear outside the curtain lest I missed the sound of one of the children coughing themselves into fatal asphyxiation. 

Around lunchtime, Kieran's doctor calls to tell me about the pneumonia. Yay. And a little while after that, Eric finally calls to say that he was just about the leave, but the battery on his key fob is dead and he only has a key to start the car, not the one that manually unlocks the doors. I have that key in my purse, of course.

He went to the Toyota Dealership next door and they did have a new key battery, but it still didn't work. So, seeing my leisurely shower and childless afternoon getaway slipping away, I load up the two kids, both sick, into the van to drive downtown. Eric isn't waiting at the front door of his office when I get there and, as usual my cell phone is dead and I can't call him. So I drive to the back parking lot and unlock the door of his car manually, noting that my key fob ALSO is not working. This, as it turns out, is rather an important piece of information, but since I know virtually nothing about cars, I didn't think about it. 

I drive back around front where Eric is now waiting, drop him back off at his car and give him all my Nissan keys. Since I'm feeling tired and sick myself, not to mention guilty about dragging two sick babies downtown, I drove off. About 20 minutes into the drive, I start having this weird feeling...like I should have waited to make sure that Eric's car started. 

Turns out, it didn't start. The battery was quite dead. He realized this seconds after I left the parking lot and had no way to get stop me. I come home to a series of messages, starting with the rant about me never having a charged cell phone and getting more frustrated as the messages went on. As it turns out, a co-worker gave him a boost and the car was humming merrily, but somehow during this time, all the doors had wound up being shut and automatically locked. With BOTH sets of our car keys now inside and Eric outside in the freezing cold and me back home. 

By the time I called him back, another co-worker had called CAA for him and he was now just waiting for them to come open his door. 

While listening to these messages, I'm also getting the kids out of their winter gear. Kieran was definitely feeling better, which was good considering I hadn't even picked up his antibiotics from the pharmacy yet. But as I was taking off Kaya's hat, I took a good look at her. She'd been a bit sick since Wednesday but, unlike Kieran's, her fever though consistent had been quite low. And the night before she had started the same alarmingly horrible cough that Kieran had. But she had never never seemed as sick as Kieran had so I didn't really pay much attention. But looking at her then, I just knew that something was very wrong. She was boiling hot, her eyes were all glazed and watery and she just looked generally awful. She had barely eaten all day and I tried to give her a bottle, but she just wasn't interested. 

I called the doctor's office, which by this time, was only open for another hour, and they told me to come right in, so I pack both kids back into their winter gear and the car and off we go. When the Dr. saw us sitting her in examination room, she gave me a look that clearly meant "oh my god, here's a panicking mother who doesn't even realize that pneumonia isn't contagious" but after she listened to Kaya's man-sized cough, raspy lungs and wheezy breathing, and heard about her low but prolonged fever, we had our second pneumonia diagnosis of the day.  And now I have two children with asthma puffers and breathing masks and a fireplace mantle lined with pharmaceuticals. 

Black Friday, indeed.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

What Would Jesus Do?

You know how when you hear about some horrible domestic incident on the news and there are always friends, neighbours, teachers who report after the fact that they saw the warning signs and yet did nothing? I've always hoped that I would be one of the people who WOULD do something. Say, if I heard screaming coming from a house or something that I would call 911 rather than just keep walking and assume it's none of my business. 

Sometimes though it's not so simple. 

I have blogged about our neighbours before. We have the cranky old people beside us: some less cranky old people across from us: and the family next door consisting of a mousy wife, two young daughters and the weird -overly-chatty husband who can have the same conversation with me once a week and never seem to remember. Despite the rampant neighbourhood gossip about this man being a raging drunk and having fights with all the neighbours, we've actually never once seen anything totally out of the ordinary. In fact, it sounded like in the years before we arrived our little street was a regular Knots Landing (I'd say Melrose Place, but that would imply that my neighbours had either looks or money, and alas, neither is the case). Apparently there was lots of fighting and drama all over the place. Now its just sort of dull. I think the people who we bought the house from were a huge part of the drama and when they moved things seemed to have settled down.

Periodically though, this seemingly nice but odd family next door have crazy arguments. I once heard the father and his preteen daughter having a screaming fight over Elton John. (The daughter thought, predictably, that Sir Elton was lame). What struck me about the argument was that there was no air of "jest" about it. There was fury on both sides and it seemed so silly. Then about a year ago, one of Eric's clients came to our front door reporting that our neighbours were, as she put it,"having a domestic." Anyway, I just sort of decided that they are a hot tempered family because this will happen and the next day it all seems fine and they are off camping for the weekend or asking us to sign their passports so they can go to Disney World. 

Then a few weeks ago, I was woken up from a dead sleep at about 1:30 by what sounded like a group of teenagers on the street. It was a Tuesday and Eric was at a band practice and I hadn't heard him come home yet, which was odd because 1:30 would be late for him on just a practice night. The voices were not going away and as I sat up in bed I realized that a fight was going on outside.  I also realized that Eric WAS home and with him was their new lead singer, Erin. Erin was trying to leave but, as it turns out our neighbours were having a crazy huge fight in their driveway and she was sort of afraid to go outside. Eventually, as it became clear that the fight was not going to end, she left and as the door opened I could hear the yelling as if it was on our doorstep. The wife was screaming something about how "he always does this when she has to get up in the morning." Anyway, I guess they were NOT expecting to see anyone leaving our house because as soon as they saw Erin they shut up and I'm hoping were sufficiently embarrassed and went back inside. Again, the next day, all is well. 

Then last night, something really bizarre happened. It was about 9 pm, and coincidentally Erin is just arriving at our house again. We'd had a snowstorm and the roads were bad so Erin's husband had called to make sure she had arrived, as she doesn't have a cell phone. So, when Eric saw her car pull up he went outside to give her his phone. And the neighbours are at it again. This time, while Eric was outside, the wife came running out of the house screaming: "Help Me! Help Me!" but then ran back inside and then about a minute later, came out again screaming "Help Me! Help Me!", then the daughter (who's about 14)came outside and seemed really embarrassed and got the mother back in the house and I think that was the end of it. 

I was thinking about calling 911, but didn't. I think if Eric hadn't seen the daughter come to the door, perfectly fine, I might have. Because really if I ran out the house screaming for help, I'd like to think that someone would actually HELP.  But something about the situation seemed more "crazy" than "emergency".  .

Still...all day, I've felt guilty.  What if there is something really bad going on? What if one morning I wake up not to an argument, but an ambulance? Last night, it felt like calling 911 would be a big deal. Eric seemed to think the wife was drunk. But still, something obviously isn't right over across that fence. I'm sort of worried that they have crossed a line from harmless and, dare I say, even a bit funny, to something that I need to start worrying about.

Anyway, I think next time (and something tells me there WILL be a next time) I will call the police. When it comes right down to it , there are worse things than embarrassment. 

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Everybody Out of the Pool!!

Just in case you thought you had read the last breastfeeding blog from me, be warned, here comes another. But, don't worry,  it doesn't involve me...just my ever-present opinions. 

There was a news story in the Toronto Star yesterday about a woman who was asked leave a public pool because she was breastfeeding. This woman is asking the Ontario Human Rights Tribunal to look into it, and on the surface I would think...rightfully so. Right now, there is a huge "Anytime, Anywhere" breastfeeding campaign going in this region and surely this is exactly what they mean.

Really?

Here's the story: the woman was in the pool talking to a group of friends when her 20-month-old daughter started to get fussy, so she moved to the steps of the pool to breastfeed her daughter there. The female (and coincidentally pregnant) owner of the pool, asked the woman if she would mind moving to the change room or the viewing area where she might be "more comfortable". And thus begins yet another war....

Now, legality aside, there are some key words above that make me pause. Those words are public pool; 20-month-old; steps. 

Come ON. 

First of all, why would anyone, legally able or not, WANT to feed her baby (ahem, toddler) in a public pool that probably has  seen more pee than a Yonge St parking garage stairwell? Mix that pee (and God knows what else) with pool chemicals and that DOES sound like a nutritious, tasty meal.  It reminds me of the time we dropped Kieran's soother on the floor of The Brick. I WANTED to give it to him so we could continue shopping in peace, but didn't because that would have been gross. Perhaps if I had scraped my boob across the floor and fed him in the doorway that would have been more acceptable?

Secondly, was the 20-month-old THAT hungry that she could not wait to be removed from the pool? She's not exactly a newborn, nor even a baby. Not to criticize her parenting...well, YES, I'm going to criticize her parenting! How about telling the girl, "not right now, Mommy is in the pool talking to her friends?"

And finally, the pool STEPS. Convenient for you perhaps, but for the other pool users, perhaps not so much. 

This mother said she felt ashamed and embarrassed to be singled-out and asked to leave, but I can tell you right now, that although I support breastfeeding 100 per cent, I think this woman is an oddball. 

Normally, because I was far too cowardly to even think about public breastfeeding,  I consider those who do as brave. In a bathing suit it would border on heroic since there is no scenario I can imagine where this can be done discreetly. (Which, by the by, I'm sure is a main part of the reason why the woman was asked to leave and the ick-factor just a lucky defense.)

There are of course, people who feel quite strongly on both sides of the issue. Lots of supporters are saying things like "this never would have happened if she was bottle-feeding." Well, probably not, because unless she had the bottle hidden up her tankini, she would have had to leave the pool to go get it and I would HOPE would not go back to the pool steps to bottle feed her child. 

No, in my oh-so-humble opinion, human rights violation or not, it just seems like outright self-centredness on the mother's part. Surely the only person benefitting from the "pool steps breastfeed" was the woman herself...after all, she didn't have to cut the conversation with her friends short to deal with her child. It was not to the benefit of the daughter, who probably has been fed in warmer, cleaner and more comfortable places in her day. Obviously, the pool owner is not benefitting...her pool is now the site of pro-breastfeeding demonstrations. 

I would even be surprised if the greater good, which is to say, the generalized acceptance of public breastfeeding, will be served.  I'm sure advocates would be happier if the woman championing their cause was a teensy bit wiser but then again, they probably don't care since any publicity is good publicity.

Anytime, anywhere, indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to feed Kieran his lunch. In a rest stop bathroom. On the floor. Its legal. And delicious. 


Wednesday, November 12, 2008

They're not Just For Breakfast Anymore....

So..how long does it take to boil an egg? I think it's something like 3-5 minutes for soft boiled and 10-15 for hard boiled. But, here's a trick question. How long does it take to boil an egg until it explodes into a billion hard-boiled smithereens? 

That would be an hour and a half. 

I went out last night with the girls for dinner and some serious girl talk, which we haven't done in ages.  I got home probably about 12:30 or so and was immediately struck by this horrible smell in the house. I tentatively walked into the kitchen and at first everything looked sort of okay, but also sort of off....then, as I looked closer, I see small unidentifiable yellows bits all over everything. The stove, the floor, the counter, the ceiling  - basically from one end of the kitchen to the other and (as I found today) even into the living room.. It wasn't until I looked in the sink and saw the burned carcass of a pot with charred black bits all over it that I started to figure out what might be happened. There had obviously been some kitchen catastrophe of which Eric had attempted to clear away, albeit half-heartedly.

To answer the next obvious questions of what, how and why, I needed to locate my husband who was lurking downstairs on this computer, and looking quite sheepish when I walked in. Yes, he put on eggs to boil for his next morning's breakfast and then went to put Kieran to bed, fell asleep himself and woke up an hour and half later to the sound of eggs exploding like firecrackers all over the house. Trust me, I'm not sure what was worse... the smell of burned eggs or the process of chipping burned yolk of the ceiling. 

Breakfast is ready!






Friday, November 7, 2008

Genny on the Town

Eric's band has yet another new female lead singer. I believe this is #5 in the past 18 months.  The singers have all been varying degrees of good with flashes of great, but it has taken them a long time to find just the right fit...and I'm thinking, fingers crossed, that this one is keeper. Not just because she's really good (probably the best yet), but also because I cannot take the eternal drama of them finding a new female lead, rehearsing endlessly and then her ultimately leaving/being asked to leave. Drama, I tell you and quite exhausting.

Anyway, Eric suggested that last Saturday might be a good day to go see them since they were playing at relatively popular bar downtown. Now that the band is doing very well, they are playing at bars that people actually go to. This is a big change from the early days when me and my drunk friends might be the only patrons at some boring pub.  But I thought it was a great idea - he has been playing so often that I have more or less forgotten that I used to make an effort to attend most of his gigs. 

It was going to be my first night away from the Papaya since she was born. Almost seven months. Still, I was more than ready, so  I imposed on the goodwill of my brother and sister-in-law for the second night in a row (Halloween being the night before) and arranged to have the kids stay over there overnight.  

So, off we went. The bar, which I had been to before, has a real reputation of being a cougar bar and I remembered being shocked at exactly how many older ladies were there. What was even more shocking was that those exact same older ladies are apparently STILL going. It was a crazy mix of young and old. Like a tacky wedding with a good band. And, without a word of a lie there were two ladies, who were clearly pushing 70, all dolled up and rocking out the dance floor. In true Grandma-fashion they were even holding their ears because the band was "too loud." I had our camera and spent an inordinate amount of time trying take their picture. I took shot after shot of them while pretending to take shots of the band. (Later, my curiosity getting the better of me, I engaged one of them in conversation for awhile...apparently, while I sit at home watching reruns of "What Not to Wear" they hit that bar every single Saturday night.)

I just kept taking pictures. I got tons of photos of the band and my friends and even had a new one picked out as my new Facebook profile picture. At one point, alcohol interfering in my iffy ability to work the camera to begin with, I ended up on video mode and so I went ahead and videoed a few songs, which caused me to run out of room on the memory card. I put the camera away, but then, some young guy started to actively hit on one of old ladies! It was a golden moment and I felt I needed to get a picture, so I went ahead and deleted a bunch of  stuff I had shot earlier  and then started to take more pictures of what was happening on the dance floor which, the time at least, I considered to be real hilarity. Alas, the last pictures of the night were clearly those taken by a drunk person of drunk people. All off centre, blurry, stupid. But I was happy  and figured that out of the dozens of pictures I took - at least earlier in the night - SOME had to be good. 

So, the next day as I languished on the couch feeling decidedly ill and postponing the pickup of my little darlings, Eric took a moment to download the pictures I had taken.

Except they were All Gone. All that was left was the horrible 20 or so that I had taken just before last call when nobody should be either driving nor operating a camera. I vaguely remember the camera asking me to confirm that I wanted to delete photos on a screen that was unfamiliar to me, but those pints of Creemore did not allow me to stop and think for a moment. So we lost  it all. Not just that night either.  It was goodbye to all the Halloween pictures, and everything from several months before that, which I am choosing to NOT think about. (Sure I can put the kids back in their Ladybug and Cow costumes...but I would always know it was staged and the true moment lost.)

Still, all in all, it was a good night, but I'm still mad. All I have left is the memories of two old ladies in their pearls and heels, dancing to "I Kissed a Girl" and "500 Miles". And tomorrow night, as I watch Stacey and Clinton mock yet another unfortunate slob in their cruel three way mirror, I will think of them and shed a tear.