Funny Thoughts

Is it really “child torture”?

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I was once asked why I torture children.  Whoa!  Let me explain.

A four-year old wanted to play make-believe with me.  No problemo!  I am always in for some fun and games.  Well, she started off by saying that we would be playing tea party.  “YOU can be a princess and I’LL be a princess…” at which point I interrupted her (as children are apt to do when we adults speak).

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“I don’t want to play tea party,” I said calmly.  “Let’s play something else”.  Child torture?  I think not.

When I play with children, I love getting their minds working.  I love challenging them.  I want to see and hear what they will think of next.  Honestly, they are brilliant!  There are things that we, as adults, can teach them.  However, their minds, at the young age, have a world focus that is so pure and genuine.  It’s a mind that we adults used to have, but then had reprogrammed along the way to adulthood.  As we went to school we were taught to think a certain way.  We were taught about past beliefs and were not only encouraged, but forced to think that same way.  I recall, as a child, I needed some form of escape.  I think this is what got me reading at a young age.   It was something to release me from reality.

Reading is a great escape.  A good author can have you leave this reality and enter another world using only your mind’s eye.  This is often the reason why I prefer reading the books instead of seeing their counterpart movie versions.  Movies cannot recreate what I have beautifully conceived and visualized in my mind.  This is also one reason why I love the Harry Potter series so much.

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This wonderful woman (J.K. Rowling) has written stories that children are enthusiastic about.  They WANT to read.  Youngsters and many adults (me included) love them!  The stories are exciting, but also sometimes scary.  There are good people and evil people.  These stories, although taking place in a magical world, incorporate everything going on in our muggle…ahem…human world.  Think about it.  J.K. Rowling’s story about Harry Potter talks about bullying.  It talks about shy people.  It is detailed about friendships and how you can end up in arguments with your best friends.   It discusses bravery.  It tells the reader that you will find friends in the strangest of places.  You learn that there are those who will always have your back and those who will always try to put you down.  In the end, the moral of this series for me is that, no matter how difficult life’s challenges may be, it is important to always to be true to yourself and hold onto your beliefs.  Again, my opinion only.  I am sure there are many differing opinions about these books.  Huzzah!  Even better…books that mean something different to everyone.

Back to my non-tea party playdate (a.k.a. adorable granddaughter).  Did she get mad and storm off when I said I didn’t want to play princess tea party?  Nope.  She sat back for a second, hummed and hawed and said, “Ok, let’s play hospital.”  The new game was about to begin.  Oh sure, I kept changing stuff along the way.  She wanted me to be the doctor and I told her I wanted to be the patient.  She let that one go too.  Then she wanted me to have a baby and I wanted to have a broken leg.  Well, that one I gave in to.  Why?  Well, she had the baby doll all lined up and ready to go.  Lesson learned:  If you want to have friends to play with, sometimes it’s your way and sometimes it will be your friend’s way.

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I know that parents want their children to be happy, happy, happy all the time.  No tears, no issues in life.  Give them whatever they want because you love them with all your heart and would never want anything to hurt them.  The difficulty with this is that the real world isn’t like home.  Eventually they will have to deal with the bullies or they might not get their own way.  What will they do then?  How will they handle it?  If you don’t have them try it out at home where it’s controlled and safe, they won’t know what to do when it happens outside the safe house.

Conclusion:  You may disagree with what I have said.  That is fine with me.  We all have our opinions about teaching children to become great citizens in this world of ours.  There are gads of books out there from psychologists to psychiatrists to other parents.  Every parent worries that they are the worst parent ever and that someone else has the right answer and the best way to raise their children.  NEWSFLASH!  Parents who love and care for their children ARE great parents.  Everyone is doing it wrong and everyone is doing it right.  That’s why there are so many books on this subject because no one really knows the best way.  If your gut tells you it feels right then go with that way.  You will be happy and your child will be happy and happy people go on to live happy lives.

Feel free to challenge your kids during playtime.  No harm…no foul.  Your brilliant lad or lassie will surprise you with what they can come up with.  “Child torture”?  Naaaaah!  Let’s refer to it as…mini-brain stimulation.  When you get that clever answer back you won’t regret it.  Give yourself a star for being the BESTEST PARENT.  (Yes…my made up word, but there should be a word for something better than best)!

Dear Parent / Guardian – Please feel free to print off this star and wear it proudly.

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Let it snow, let it snow, let it…STOP ALREADY!

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I am Canadian.  I was born in York (now renamed Toronto), Ontario, Canada.  I have lived in Canada all my life.  Culturally speaking, I am a cross-breed.  Heritage-wise, my upbringing was full on “small village” Croatian.  This encompassed types of food eaten to language spoken in the childhood home; all pure village-Croatian.  There are however, very strong parts of my upbringing that are 100% Canadian and shall always remain as such.  The one major part is what most people think when they hear about Canada or think about Canada:  snow.

Snow…that wonderful white blanket that covers the green grass.  Those little flakes that fall from the sky gently and quietly.  You might hear a whisper of snow as it lands upon your puffy coat.  “Snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes”, as song by Maria VonTrapp (a.k.a. Julie Andrews) in The Sound of Music.  As children we were disappointed if we didn’t have a white Christmas.  I recall actually being at midnight mass and praying for snow.  Imagine my elation when I, prayers granted, left church to see the ground covered in 2 inches of snow and more falling down.  Yay!  Snow!  That wonderful, magical, wintery, fairy dust from the sky.  Well, not so much anymore.  Why?  I am now the designated shoveler of said wonderful fluffy stuff.  Happy?  Heck no!

Snow is one of those interesting things that people yearn for if they are excited tobogganers or avid skiers.  If you are the “driving-around-town” type, then snow becomes a disaster.  There are those who do not recall how to drive in snow, making it a precarious game of pass or fail:  pass the crazy driver who seems to keep fish-tailing, or fail and get hit by said crazy driver.  Ahhhhh…snow.

I bring you back now to the snow-filled back and front yards of my youth.  We had, what was called “packing snow”.  This snow had some wetness to it.  This was vital for creating the most formidable fortresses to hide in.  This fortress was also the place where you stored the snowballs you made with this same mouldable snow.

Snowmen?  Pshaw….best around!  You might need three people to roll the snow in order to make large boulders, but it was worth it!  That three-ball tiered snowman was a work of art!

Snow angels were also on the play menu.  You dropped down in the snow on your back and waved your arms up and down like a bird, and moved your legs out and in.  Once completed, you could stand up and leave behind a beautiful “angel” in the snow.  Yes, the miracles created by using the white, fluffy stuff.

The hardest part of childhood winters was the dress up.  Most of us did not have snow pants so we had two pairs of pants that were tucked into snow boots.  Your coat had a hood with a drawstring that was tied tightly under your neck.  The pièce de résistance  was the scarf.

IMG_2651That magical impediment to play freedom.  That scarf started around your neck, covered your chin and nose (which led to frost forming on the scarf when you breathed).  Then, it was wrapped around your forehead leaving your eyes open.  No peripheral vision and your hood usually slipped down making the scarf slip down so you usually walked with your head up high as your eyeballs tried to focus on what you were working on.  I do recall waddling into the backyard and slipping INTO the snow.  Yes, my body was submerged, but my scarfed-face was breathing air.  My siblings did not rescue me.  I was trapped…immovable (to their delight).  Ahh…the good ol’ days.  Then suddenly, it all changed.

Childhood is full of so many things that are fun and then we become adults and we are no longer permitted to enjoy the trivialities of life.  Ponder this…jumping into a pile a leaves in the fall.  Not fun when you are an adult because you are the one raking the leaves, not jumping into them.  Snow?  Again, if you are a skier then snow is great, but if you are not, then snow becomes something that needs to be removed.  It is work.  It is sweat.  It’s not fun.

Lately, our Canadian winters have been a bit off-kilter.  They have been cold (-20 degrees celsius) or super cold (-45 degrees celsius) and not as much snow.  Initially I was happy to hear that.  Three years ago all I did was shovel the stuff.  I started feeling bad for little children because they would not be able to build snowmen or make snow angels.  Please understand, I was NOT wishing for snow and yet…well…it seems like this new torrential snow onslaught is kind of my fault.

I love children and want them to be able to enjoy the same things I revelled in as a child.  These days it seems that children have to be supervised 24/7 which gives them no time for freedom of exploration like we had.  I recalled one day in seventh grade when I became friends with a new student from Florida.  I recalled how thrilled he was when he saw snow.  He had heard about it, seen pictures of it, but couldn’t imagine ever feeling it.  His leaned his head back, stuck out his tongue, and waited for the flakes so that he could taste it and feel it.  His exuberance led to a snowball fight (which I started so that he could get the full effect of the snowstorm).  I guess that passion for life is what made me think about children and their lack of our Canadian birthright to snow.

So…I apologize.  My “let it snow, let it snow, let it snow” wish, which is usually reserved for Christmas, became my wish for Canadian children.  I hope that schools are closed tomorrow so that kiddies can play with vim and vigor!  I hope that I see snowmen all up and down my street and other neighbouring streets.  I hope I get to hear the squeals of laughter and joy as they make snowballs and snow angels.

However, if I do not hear peels of laughter, then my “let it snow, let it snow, let it…” will become “STOP ALREADY!”

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P.S. For some added fun, please read one of my favourite December-time reads.  It is about a newcomer to Canada and their supreme desire to see and revel in the joys of snow.  Diary of a Snow Shoveler.  

P.P.S.  Heading back out now…4 more inches have fallen…STOP ALREADY!!!

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My new “watchful” eating plan

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I refuse to go on diets.  As Garfield the cat once proclaimed:  Diet is Die with a ‘T’.  I prefer to refer to it as a “watchful” eating plan.  I will watch what I eat.  Most often this entails watching myself inhaling pizza or continuously devouring a plate of french fries.  Yes, I have watched myself do this many times.  However, as I age, I do realize that I should be adding fibre into my daily meal plans.  I have also introduced yogurt with some fruit on a daily basis (this is day two, in case you are wondering how long I have been at it).  I have determined that I need more vegetables in my daily eating habits as well.  As such, I have deemed Asian food to be my “go-to” as I do love a good stir fry which can contain many, many varieties of vegetables.  In keeping with the Asian spirit, I have also gone to my local “Dollar Store” and purchased something that I believed would assist me in fulfilling my destiny of enjoying the consumption of my Asian cuisine.  You guessed it…chop sticks.

Let it be known that I have never really used chop sticks.  I am an avid fork user and an occasional user of spoons.  Chop sticks have always intrigued me.  The first time I actually tried to use chop sticks, they managed…ahem…I managed, to make them cross over and actually fling a piece of meat off my plate onto an unsuspecting table.  After my fingers cramped over and over again from the exertion, I relinquished my wooden apparatus.  Basically, I woos-ed out and grabbed a fork.  For shame!  However, on this evening, I decided to attempt the impossible yet again.  Ha-zaaa!

I had procured a lovely beef and vegetable stir fry.  The beef was super tender (I had worried about over frying it).  The mish-mash of vegetables would have made a dietician proud:  broccoli, red onions, red peppers, baby bok choy, carrots, celery, snap peas, mushrooms, and crunchy bean sprouts.  Oh my!  A smorgasbord of delightful vegetables and beautiful colour.  I added some rice into the mix and was ready to proceed with my healthy feast.  I put my stir fried creation into a lovely bowl and proceeded to google how to hold chop sticks.  Yes I did.  I practiced and was ready to chow down on my homemade creation.

Hmmm, playing with the chopsticks felt easy…until I actually tried to pick up food.  My first attempts were quite successful.  I picked up the succulent beef and shovelled it into my mouth.  Success!

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I think I became too cocky.  After the first few attempts I became more clumsy and tense.  My fingers were actually turning white from white-knuckling.  What had happened?  Eventually I changed over to the scoop method.

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That worked for awhile and then I finally decided that I was super hungry.  Back to my reliable and trusty fork I went.  That gleaming dart of food happiness.  I devoured the rest of my meal.

I will not give up.  I shall try to use the wooden spikes again.  Try, try and try again.  I will not give up!  Well, I will give in if my fingers cramp up again, but after that I will figure out how to eat with these food fantasy sticks.  If I can’t figure it out on my own, I am sure someone can give me lessons.  There is probably a 3-year old who has it down pat.

The silver lining of this adventure:  It took me waaaaaay longer to eat my meal.  It gave me time to think and analyze my eating procedure.  As such, I actually felt fuller much quicker as I was not inhaling my food as I usually do.  It made me appreciate every flavour and every vegetable I was biting into.  Hmmm….perhaps I have found my new watchful eating plan.  Eat slower.  Digest slower.  Enjoy the time more.  I think it’s a solid future plan.

P.S.  If anyone can give me the “Dummy’s version” of how to use chop sticks I would be very, very grateful.

Soda pop can be hazardous to your health…

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This is a true story.  I am not proud of this occurrence.  I actually do feel quite idiotic about it.  I do, however, feel it is my duty to share with you the dangers of soda pop; specifically those in 2 litre bottles.  Please, heed my advice and make sure you share this with family, friends, and anyone else you see buying such a bottle.  You could help prevent such trauma entering their lives.

It all began one winter evening.  I was sitting in the living room watching tv.  Waldo and Lucy (my dogs) were snuggled up beside me.  I had just finished making some homemade chicken soup from scratch.  I had turned the heat down to minimum under the pot so that it could happily simmer for a couple of hours.  The house was already smelling good.  It was nice to sit back and relax and enjoy some quiet time.  Wiseguy was working the night shift.  No kids were in the house.  Peace and quiet reigned…until IT happened!

I heard a gunshot come from the direction of my kitchen.  I screamed out loud!  My heart was pounding.  I walked cautiously toward the kitchen entranceway; I was alone and afraid.  I stood in the doorway…my mouth agape.  I was in shock.  I couldn’t move.  My eyes slowly moved around the scene in the kitchen, trying to compute what had happened.  What HAD happened?

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This is what I saw as I looked around the room:  My walls and cupboards were covered in something brownish.  I looked at the pot on the stove.  The lid was slightly askew to allow steam to escape, but no evidence of an explosion.  I saw my floor covered in brown liquid as well.  Where had it come from?  Suddenly I saw drops coming from the ceiling.  I looked upwards…GASP!!!!  There were brown droplets falling from my now-brown-previously-white ceiling.  What had HAPPENED!!??  My brain could not compute it.  Then, as if guided by a higher power, my eyes locked onto the culprit.

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You have probably already figured out what transpired.  If not, here is the play by play.

  1. Soup pot simmering.
  2. Two litre, plastic Pepsi bottle a foot away from the stove; new…unopened.
  3. Pepsi bottle was slowly being heated; refer to #1 in play by play.
  4. Pepsi bottle no longer had room for expansion.
  5. BANG!!!  Explosion of said Pepsi bottle.
  6. There was about an inch of that beverage left in the bottle…the rest was catapulted into the ceiling and dispersed ungraciously all over my counters, stove, fridge, windows, blinds, floor, table, coffee maker, toaster, dishwasher, etc.
  7. Meltdown…no…not the bottle; I crumpled to the floor in the hallway in shocked bewilderment.
  8. I whimpered.
  9. I felt a small body brush up beside me.  CRAP!  The dogs were trying to get into the kitchen!
  10. I hollered, “NOOOOOOOOOO!” at the dogs who then proceeded to back off.

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So…where would you begin the mind-boggling clean up?  Floor?  Just watch out for the Pepsi drops from the sky.  Ceiling?  Yes, you could start there, but how do you get to the ceiling without stepping into one of the puddles on the floor?  How about counters? Cupboards?  Fridge?  What would be the best plan of attack to wash up a room, literally, sprayed in soda pop.  Yes, quite the conundrum.

Where did I start?  I don’t know.  I honestly don’t recall.  I believe I was so traumatized by it, that I erased the actual cleanup from memory.  I tend to have sketchy thoughts about towels on the floor and a step stool to reach the ceiling, but it’s all kind of muddled; dream/nightmare or reality.  Not sure.  For weeks and many, many months after that “cleanup” I would find sticky spots somewhere in the kitchen.  Oh, it had spattered into the hallway too.  I learned that when my foot stuck to the floor.  I’d open a cupboard to pull out a plate and find brown spots on it.  Just when I would think it was all gone, I would find evidence of it somewhere else.  Years later, when we decided to renovate our kitchen, we pulled out the fridge and the stove and guess what we found?  A Rorschach test of that spiteful drink.  After washing that wall, and covering it with tiles I can finally say that I have never seen another spot of Pepsi in the kitchen.  That was the end of the nightmarish soda fountain episode.

The one other part of this true-life horror story is really the irony of the whole situation.  You see, I don’t drink pop.  I can’t stand the stuff.  When I was younger and used to drink it, I actually preferred Sprite or 7Up…bubbly and clear liquids!   Ironic right?  I had a volcano of brownish sugar-beverage all over my kitchen and I never even drank it.

I learned a valuable lesson that evening and I urge you to share this knowledge…for safety’s sake.  I no longer buy two litre bottles of pop.  No more large, plastic potential bombs in my humble abode.

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”  Benjamin Franklin

I prefer to purchase the lovely, aluminum can versions of pop.  For safety reasons, these sugar drinks are stashed away inside the fridge at all time…far, far away from any and all sources of heat.

Moral of the story:   Soda pop can be hazardous to your health…especially your mental health.

 

 

 

 

Gnomenclature…

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Yes, please feel free to “google” that word.  It does not exist…yet.  This new word now exists in my special dictionary where verbiage is absolutely a necessity.  Feel free to use it in your everyday vernacular!  The official, properly spelled word is:  nomenclature.  The definition is:  “the devising or choosing of names for things, especially in a science or other discipline.”  Well, my newly created word – gnomenclature – shall be defined as:  “the naming of garden gnomes based on their statuesque appearance”.  Yes…I think that shall do fine!  Why do I bring up gnomenclature?  Today I shall share with you the story of two garden gnomes and their ultimate destiny.  Our story begins…

It was Father’s Day.  A sunny day.  Wiseguy was excited to have the kids and grandkids over for this special day.  I must admit that every year the children try to find ways to surprise their father with unique and unexpected gifts.  Wiseguy is now at that point in his life where he lacks nothing, nor does he wish for anything.  The creative gift ideas were becoming a challenge.  One package he opened was not something either of us expected.  It contained a garden gnome.  True, none of those existed at our house.  The second package contained another gnome.  They were each about two feet tall.  One was jovial and the other was quite stern and serious.

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Happy Gnome (on the left);  Wise Gnome (on the right) – See??? Gnomenclature!!

So, there they were; our two new residents.  Happy made me laugh every morning when I saw him.  How could he not?  He always looked like he had just finished playing a trick on someone.  Wise gnome…well, he moved, a bit, but he never seemed happy about it.  We had fun moving them around and making the grandchildren think the gnomes pulled stunts while we were sleeping.  They would move from vegetable garden to table top.  They were ingenious (and obviously, so were we…way before that Elf on the Shelf thing became the big brouhaha.)

Cooler weather arrived.  Fall was starting to shut down summer.  We moved our tenants into a bench seat to hibernate for the winter.  Better to keep them hidden instead of having to clean snow off them.  Fall became winter, winter became a harsher winter, that part of winter finally turned into slushy spring.  After all the snow melted and the torrential rains abated, we re-introduced our ceramic/clay garden-variety (haha) gnomes into the backyard.  You recall them?  Happy and Wise?

The new year had begun and many new adventures for this fun pair!  Or were there?

It was the beginning of spring.  As I had mentioned, the snow had melted, the rain continued to cover the earth, but we felt confident that our two friends could handle the elements.  After all, they were garden gnomes.

One foul evening, the wind gods swept through our city.  They ripped shingles off houses.  Garbage bins went flying down the street.  You could actually hear the wind howling.  It whistled through the tree branches in an almost taunting way.  We hoped for the spring weather of yesteryear.  Luckily the winds died down.  The clouds had finally exhausted their waterlogged fluffiness.  The sun arose with a special kind of brightness.  The inclement weather ordeal was over.  I decided to venture outside and tally up the damage to our garden.  Sadly, my first steps through the rear door revealed devastation that I had not expected.

I opened the screen door and put hands to lips to stifle the scream of despair I felt clawing to escape from my mouth.  There, on the interlock brick, were pieces; many coloured pieces.  Blue, green, black, grey, red.  There had been a fatality!  I looked to my right and saw Happy.  The wind had turned him slightly sideways.  His eternally smiling face was there and his hand was still pointing as it usually did.  However, this was something surreal.  His hand was pointing at the remains of Wise gnome.  There he was, atop the bench seat, slightly askew from the night before.  His companion…the seriously, stodgy, Wise gnome was gone…in pieces…never to be repaired.  No Humpty Dumpty future for this gnome.

Comedic value?  Hands down, high five, fist bump…absolutely 100% classic hilarity!  Do I miss our elderly Wise gnome.  Meh…he lived…but not really.  Seriously…check out Happy!  Would you not want your life to be as happy as his everyday?  I know I would!

gnomeIt does not mean that you have to be mean to other people; although he does appear to be a prankster.  Those happy squint eyes and the smiling face…look at it!  That’s the model trouble-maker image.  Even with his disheveled clothing and half torn boots, he has found a way to make himself laugh.  I guess that’s why I like him.  No matter what adversity is thrown my way, I believe I can always find something to make me happy and appreciate all the good in my life.

So, if you feel lost and lonely or if you feel like you are being bullied or if you feel like you will never win…think of Happy.  Look at this picture and remind yourself…life is what you determine it to be.  If I can be like Happy (bwahaha) I will have a happy day, everyday.

P.S.  Gnomenclature states:  the naming of garden gnomes based on their statuesque appearance.  You can be whoever you want to be.  Stand in front of that intimidating mirror and decide.  It is your choice and your prerogative.  Just know wholeheartedly that you are beautiful just the way you are.  Love and be loved.  XOXO.

 

 

‘Cause I gotta have “Faith”…

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Remember when I was telling you all about the rain drizzle weeks I lived through?  I know, I know “Stop talking about it already!!”  I promise, this is the last time I shall refer to it (this week anyway).  I bring it up because during those weeks I found that people had different coping mechanisms to deal with their SAD.  There was binge watching tv.  Extra snacking whilst watching tv.  Going out to eat instead of cooking.  (Ok, a lot of food references).  Going to the gym to exercise.  Movie night.  Those are just a few ways that folks were distracting themselves.  One that I did not mention, which I know makes a big difference and might be obvious is:  MUSIC!

Has anyone ever asked you, “Who is your favourite band or singer?”  Perhaps they have inquired about your favourite song.  In my younger years, while hanging out at THE bar after work, we used to play the Island game.  “If you were stuck on a deserted island, which album would you want with you?”  Good question!  This was not a judgemental question.  It actually led to a lot of great conversation about the type of music your friends liked and why.  Island living was basically forever so what could you tolerate for that length of time.

During my SAD time, I actually did turn to music.  I will be honest with regards to my listening choices.  In order to escape reality, my favourite thing to listen to is actually stories.  I subscribe to an old time radio show where stories from the 1930s up to the 1955s exist.  I love hearing tales and imagining the scenes in my mind.  It’s a beautiful distraction and my mind is fantastic at creating the scenes.  However, sometimes when I need to get into a better mood it is music that lifts my spirits.  I love upbeat music.  In most cases it is not even about the lyrics.  It’s about the beat.  I need a great hardcore thump-thump beat and there are so many musicians and/or singers that provide this for me.  So, when I hit my slump and I need a boost I turn to my recorded/downloaded tunes and dance away in my beloved kitchen.

Music has so many dimensions.  I used to play an instrument (looked like a mandolin, but it was a tambura).  I also sang in the church choir…from pre-pubescence to adulthood.  Music and song are a strong part of my life.  Listening to music on the AM radio was also a life changing experience for me.  When I finally got my own radio, it made me feel like I was friends with kids at school.  I was the outcast.  Being able to identify with the girls about music on the radio and the “rad(ical)” DJs helped with my un-coolness.  The AM radio phase became the FM phase (which I was not privy to), but music was still a huge part of my life.

Not only was I a member of the church choir, but I was privileged in that my parents let me quit the musical sect of Croatian culture (my tambura…prima) and let me join the dancing sect.  I LOVED (and still LOVE) dancing.  I was beyond grateful for this opportunity.  I sang well.  I played…mediocre.  Dancing…I was born for this!

I started off in the junior group because I had never done it before.  I did great!  I loved it!  I was absorbing everything so quickly that within a year I got to do stuff that I had only dreamt of doing.  I loved my group.  I loved our performances.  I appreciated everyone and everything that led me here.  I was enjoying living my life.  Even better…we got to go back to the “homeland” to perform in several cities there.  Us…from Canada…going to Europe. Pack your bags and your costumes and away we went.

Now, I know I have focused a lot on our Canadian dance group.  We were like a mini family. That was the greatest thing.  Not only were we traveling abroad, but we did have many practices to ensure our professionalism.  We had strict curfews.  Most importantly we were friends watching each other’s backs.  This was a trip that not only inspired us to do our best, but it created new friendships and several friendships led to marriages.  Quite the trip right?  The reason I bring this up is because there was one song that we, as a group, listened to over and over and over and over again in the travel bus.  It became our theme song.  It was a song that most did not know the words to except for one word.  When the tape deck (yes…it was a radio/tape recorder) came to that section of the song, everyone yelled it out in excuberance and happy defiance.  It became the anthem of our dance tour.

Thank you, George Michael, for the song that will always bring fond memories back into my life.  Your passing made me think about my life and how it would effect others.  If you can hear me, I would like you to know that your song “Faith” became a memorable part of our lives and perhaps the lives and memories of many others.  When we yelled out “BABY!” we all broke out laughing at our synchronicity.   You were special and so was your song.  If I were on a desert island, my go-to song for partying would be…

Paul Simon’s:  Me and Julio!

Sorry, not being mean, but truthful.  However our favourite line that we screamed and yelled out on our bus over and over again:  “BABY!”  from your (George Michael) song, “I gotta have faith” would lead me believe that I would be rescued.

P.S.  GM…you were so gifted.   You shared that musical talent with the world even though many did not understand you.  Thank you for pursuing your dream.  You were and are special in my life and the lives of many.  We truly believe that our lives will be great because we “gotta have faith.”

Sixth Sense or… Practically Magic

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“So, what time did you get home last night?”  This was the trick question that my parents would pose the morning after I’d been out.  Did your parents ever ask you this question?  If so, do you recall silently pondering:  Did they hear me come in?  Do they know I was home after curfew?  Should I tell the truth?   Should I lie and hope that they didn’t hear me?  Yes my friends, it was a life gamble.  Sometimes I won.  Sometimes I lost.  Roll the dice of fate and see what happens!  Those were stressful moments.  Time goes by.  You grow up and perhaps have children of your own to take care of.  Guess what you get to do?  You guessed it!  Torture your own kids!  Life can be so fair that way.  Bwahahaha!

I used to think that my parents were psychic.  How did they know when I did something wrong?  How did they know when I was lying?  Their magic powers were revealed to me as I became older and watched my silly cousins doing stuff.  I watched them grab the milk jug from the fridge and KNEW they were going to spill the milk while pouring it into the glass.  As they ran around the house I KNEW one of them would trip and fall and start crying.  So, it wasn’t magic after all!  All you parents out there know exactly what I am talking about.  Let me share some of those fascinating situations and what occurs when you have not yet been gifted with that beautiful clairvoyance.

Beware the Silence:  All you parents of toddlers know this one very well.  Every adult knows that screaming, yelling kids can drive you absolutely crazy!  You pray and beg for quiet.  Anything for a little bit of peace.  Your wish comes true.  You sit back with that still warm cup of coffee and then you remember…THERE’S A TODDLER IN THE HOUSE!  Worse still…it’s quiet…too quiet.  NOOOOOOOOOO!  Yes, that little bit of heaven just cost you two tubes of lipstick (now broken after being used to colour on the walls).  That new roll of toilet paper has been reeled into the toilet.  Luckily you caught the culprit just before the toilet got flushed into action.

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The 10 Foot Dash:  Come and catch me!  That’s what your little one is miming as you hear the giggle of joy and thrill of being chased.  There is one special little way that children run while being pursued.  You’ve seen it.  They start running.  As they are moving forward they are looking backwards, at you, to see how close you are.  Hmmm, what do you think happens?  Easy to guess for us magically gifted parents…WHAM!  Faceplant to the wall.

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Third Eye:  Guardians of the rug-rats eventually grow a third eye.  Not a real third eye, but that sensory eye that can see through walls, around corners, and even into toddler’s minds.  This is the most complex and highly powerful tool in a parent’s arsenal.  Never let them know the truth for it shall shatter their illusion of your omnipotence.  Let them wholeheartedly believe that on the back of your head you have grown an invisible third eye.  My favourite would be hearing little voices shout-whisper (kids really don’t know how to whisper) “How did she know?”  Well, here is how the power of the third eye works.  Parent in kitchen prepping food.  Kids in another room watching tv and getting bored.  The Parent, with the imperceptible third eye, knows that there has been no yelling, punching, or obligatory sibling fighting.  This wise parent would, at this exact moment of realization, yell out, “Don’t you dare!”  Children stare in awe at each other.  That wondrous look that says “How did she know?”  Note:   had guardian not yelled this out, said children would have couch pillows in hand ready to swing violently at each other leading to painful tears and hollers of, “My eye! My eye!” streaming through the house.

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Blame Game:  Enlightened adults know when a youngster has done some dirty deed.  “Who did this?!”  The interrogative line to subdue the youth.  As the adult, you are in charge of this campaign of youthful entertainment.  You know that once the rule of no playing ball in the house gets broken, it ultimately leads to something else being broken.  Vases, lamps, and flower pots are the top three casualties of war.  Veteran parents know that the indoor games begin after several minutes of the “Beware of Silence” phase.  For the newbies, being distracted by doing other life chores, the war would begin.  The flower pot would disintegrate and someone was going to get it.  “Who did this?” is the parental shriek.  Children get this wonderful look on their face when they are guilty.  We adults know how to read that look.  It’s kind of a wide-eyed terror look.  Fidgeting is a good tell as well.

fullsizeoutput_1a06Parents, I truly believe that with age comes wisdom.  With wisdom comes responsibility.  With responsibility comes a time when you decide that screwing around with your children’s minds is waaaaaaaaaay more fun.  So use that sixth sense.  Bring that terror of your omnipotence into their lives.  Tell them that you have a third eye.  Tell them that you can see them no matter where they are and that you know what they are doing at all times.  Bust ’em when you can.  David Copperfield may have his magic tricks, but as adults and parents trying to raise children, we too are practically magic.

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