Category: Uncategorized

Image credit.

I woke up at 6:45 am Saturday morning to register my kids for Toronto’s city-run summer day camp at a local community centre. I pried open my eyes, trudged down the stairs, and sat down in front of the computer. I made sure my internet was working. I double checked that I had all the proper codes: family code, client code for each kid, and the individual codes for every session I wanted to register for. I dialed the phone-in registration number, too, so I would only have to hit redial. Then I waited.

6:58. 6:59. 7:00. AND GO! I pressed the online registration button on my computer with one hand and the redial button on my phone with the other. Both were busy. I kept on refreshing and redialing for a few minutes, but it didn’t take too long before I had gained access to the online system. I signed my kids up for the camps I wanted and then I was done. Not bad!

I went onto Facebook to gloat a little and saw that many friends were not so lucky. They had been unable to access the registration system for an hour or more and then the programs they wanted were full.

Lucky for us, I’m not the only one who noticed how stressful out the city’s park and rec registration process is. Mayor John Tory announced yesterday that he is planning to revamp the entire process to bring it up to date. He appointed a panel of people to find long- and short-term solutions for the registration process.

HALLELUJAH!

And of course we are all, “Finally!” A better system will be able to accommodate more people at once, so at least everyone trying to register at the same time will have a shot. Even a simple band-aid fix like offering one registration date for camps and another, separate date, for rec programs like swimming or dance lessons would immediately lessen the burden on the system.

An up-to-date registration site that easily shows program registrants all the available spots in the entire city will help families figure out when and where they can get into their desired program. Maybe the system could even recommend other neighbouring community centres! Maybe those programs could be plotted on a Google map! And TTC routes could also be integrated! Can you imagine this brave new world?

But I have one more radical idea for you, John Tory. Brace yourself.

Why don’t we let all residents of the City of Toronto sign up for whichever program they want and then simply fund those programs?

Now, hold up. Don’t get mired down in the details just yet. Don’t worry about the finite amount of pool space available in Leslieville on any given Saturday morning.  Don’t think about the fixed number of gyms in Parkdale/High Park. Don’t think about the budget. Just … shh.

Think about a world where people sign up for the programs they want and then the city offers enough of those programs. Close your eyes, breath deeply, and let that idea permeate through your body. Doesn’t that feel nice?

Good. Now all we have to do is get some smart people to figure out the how. Extended hours, discounted prices for less popular programs/locations/time slots, and possibly renting out space from the school board are a couple ideas that spring to mind. I’m sure you have some bright minds that can come up with even more solutions.

Man, I am so glad we had this talk.

This was a big movie year for me, guys. I saw not one, but TWO movies nominated for Oscars this year. Okay, so one of them was Inside Out, but I’m still counting at. At least Mad Max: Fury Road is basically as far from a wholesome family movie as it gets. I’m not sure I’m even old enough to have seen it.

Speaking of age, I couldn’t help but notice that both the Best Supporting Actress and Best Actress awards went to women in their twenties. (They were Alicia Vikander, 27, for The Danish Girl, and Brie Larson, 26, for Room, respectively.) Clearly I haven’t seen either movie, so I will assume their accolades are well-deserved.

But now that I’m clinging to my mid-thirties by the skin of my teeth, (mid-thirties lasts until 39, right?), I’m ever more aware of which roles are available to women as they get older. And since, as Oscar Wilde says, “Life imitates art,” movie roles count, dammit!

Fueled by a whiff of a suspicion of injustice, I naturally turned to Wikipedia. “Lemme find out exactly how few older women have ever won Best Actress and compare that to Best Actor,” I snickered. I was sure this had been done a million times before. I mean, this is not new. There are no good roles for older women, everyone knows that.

Sure enough, only 8 out of 87 Best Actress winners have been over 60-years-old. And three of those winners have been Katharine Hepburn! But here’s the shocker. Only 7 out of 87 Best Actor winners have been over 60-years-old. It looks like Hollywood doesn’t discriminate against gender when they are discriminating against age, after all.

Except … <cut to a scene of me typing furiously in the moonlight while I call up yet another Wikipedia page> … only ONE actor has EVER won Best Actor while he was in his 20s. (It was Adrien Brody for The Pianist at age 29, if you really need to know.) Meanwhile, a gobsmacking 31 women (out of 87, remember) have won Best Actress in their twenties.

Again, this is nothing particularly new, but it is glaringly reflected in this year’s winners. (The lack of racial diversity in the nominees was also, of course, striking. But much has already been said about that elsewhere.) In a time when a middle-aged actress is far more likely to receive press about the state of her face than the quality of her performance, we still expect actors to mature like fine wines.

Listen, I’m not saying that comparing Leonardo DiCaprio to a fine wine isn’t an apt comparison because it’s clearly the perfect comparison; our dear, rich, full-bodied Barolo with just a hint of mulberry. I’m simply saying that there was an expectation that DiCaprio had to wait to grow into the role of a great actor while women are expected to shine bright and then fade out. (There are many notable exceptions, to be sure. I generalize here.)

In any case, it looks like my own days of Hollywood dreaming are behind me. I’ll have to wait for one of my kids win an Oscar and hope to get a glimpse of my first name scrolling past on a ticker. Or maybe it’ll just say “Mom.”

“Be careful!” I called out. “Please don’t do that. You could get hurt.”

It was like I’d done so many times before, watching this kid clumsily climb up trees or perched on the highest possible playground surface. Except this time was different. We weren’t at a park or playground and what he was doing didn’t make any sense.

He was across the street on the top ledge of a five or six story building, holding his body up with his arms and doing some kind of break dancing superhero moves with his legs. The street was packed with people, some of them also calling up for him to stop, and I couldn’t seem to make my way any closer. Every once in a while, my four-year-old daughter would dart across the street and almost get run over by a car.

I was trapped in this dreamscape of paralyzing panic, not able to rescue either of my kids. Then it finally happened; he slipped. He caught hold of the ledge with one hand for the briefest of moments and then I saw him fall.

I screamed. I can still hear the raw, scratching shrieks of, “My son! My son! My son!” I ran to him, pushing through enormous crowds, screaming over and over again. Finally, I made it to where he landed on the concrete and there was a flash of his splattered head and that must have been too much. My subconscious short-circuited and I sat bolt upright in bed, blinking in the morning light, the sounds of Saturday morning cartoons drifting up the stairs.

It’s been three days and I still can’t shake the terror. I’m not sure if I ever will. But my son is fine. All my kids are fine. I can go up to their rooms where they lie sleeping and snuggle up with them, holding them safe in my arms forever more. Except then I need to put them on a school bus, and send them off to grow up and go places without me, and make the kinds of mistakes that I made with nothing but a prayer — a desperate, aching prayer — that they too might be lucky enough to survive those mistakes.

Because not everyone is so lucky. Parents in New Brunswick just lost their 18-year-old son to a drinking game. A fucking drinking game, can you even count the times.

I’m just coming up for air these days, after nearly a decade poised to pounce on babies, toddlers and preschoolers. In those early weeks, the simple act of feeding them and listening to them breath through the night was a constant vigil. Then there were beds to roll off, stairs to fall down, toxic chemicals, choking hazards, sharp objects, traffic to avoid and getting lost at the mall.

But somehow we got through it all and now it’s like there’s an evil joker laughing at me. “Oh, you thought those were dangers, did you? You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

We try not to think about it too much because our hearts can’t take it. The loss of a teenager, a young person on the cusp of adulthood, so close to having got away with it all. Because isn’t that really the only way any of us ever make it this far? We were lucky enough to get away with it.

These are the deep tragedies of this life, that burrow into our souls and become part of who we are. Countless accidents, overdoses, bad calls, suicides and unjust forces of nature steal some of the brightest lights from this earth. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I can only hold a place in my heart for those who will forever grieve: my dear cousin Daisy who lost her only son; Sue and Dave, and Michelle and Amanda who mourn their son and brother; and all the rest.

In the darkest corners of our subconscious, I think we have all been there. Yes, we can imagine all too well.

Now off to count my blessings and hope for a dreamless sleep.

As of the writing of this post, dear readers, it has been three days. Yes, three full days of house arrest by sick child. I can’t run errands, go out for lunch, take my laptop to a local coffee shop or go for my morning run. (I totally WAS going to start running every morning this week! Never you mind.)

It started with a feeble complaint about not feeling well on Monday morning. I shrugged off the complaint as usual with a, “Well, let’s just get dressed and have some breakfast and then see how you feel.” But the kid did not want to get up and since he’s not one to manufacture illnesses, we figured, fine, let him stay home.

It was kind of a bummer because the only thing I look forward to more than the weekend is Monday morning. I’m a complicated creature, I know! As much as I love spending time together as a family, I really love being all by myself and working on my own things. Still, I was able to get my most pressing work done and spend some relaxing one-on-one time with my guy who honestly did not seem very sick at all. These things happen. At least he’ll be back to school tomorrow.

And he was. But after a restless night spent screaming, crying, moaning, and kicking at her mother because of an ear ache, it was the four-year-old’s turn to stay home on Tuesday. I got exceedingly little done with a clingy, whiny, but (again) a not-so-sick-after-all four-year-old under foot. It was enough to trigger flashbacks from a few years ago when I worked at home meeting daily deadlines with hordes* of sticky preschoolers, toddlers and babies constantly underfoot. (*hordes means three here)

I dug deep, though, and found just enough grace congealing in some dark recess of my soul to muster something of a prayer of gratitude. They will all be off to school tomorrow, I thought, and now I have been reminded of what a gift those precious few hours are. I will not squander them on Facebook or by obsessive-compulsively cross referencing restaurants that are offered on UberEats to Chris Nutall-Smith reviews before making myself a Cracker Barrel cheddar sandwich on Dempster’s brown bread. No, I will write the hell out of those hours and scour my house inside and out as a fun “change of pace” when I need to take a break from the writing. I will go for that morning run after all, goddammit!

So thank you. Thank you, not-quite-sick children for reminding me of the true value of our public education system. I vow never to take it for granted ever again.

Cue four o’clock in the morning and the four-year-old is once again crying out in the night. This time it’s not her ear, but her tummy and she does indeed wind up throwing up over and over (and over) again. Then, at breakfast, the nine-year-old also throws up (just a little, does that even count?), but sure, okay, you stay home too.

And now, here I am hiding in the kitchen with my laptop from these children who are NEITHER OF THEM HARDLY SICK AT ALL and constantly demanding to be fed, paid attention to and generally loved. And, guys, how can I even believe that tomorrow will be any different? Even if the nine-year-old is well enough to go back to school and even if the four-year-old can make it through the night, I also have a seven-year-old who must, by now, be a walking petri dish of viral infections just waiting to take bloom.

The question at this point is not, when will they all return to school, but how has there ever been a day when they were all three well enough to attend. It seems like an impossible fantasy; perhaps something I dreamed up or a cruel myth that people spread like “fat-free cheesecake” or “morning people.”

But, god help me, if they ever do go back to school, I will have the most productive morning you can possibly imagine — and then I’ll go out to lunch to celebrate.

Parents these days are the worst.

Ask anybody. I hear it everywhere. I’ve smiled and nodded more times than I can count while some old lady corners me in an elevator to tell me how horrible the other parents are. I’ve heard it from other parents, read it in opinion columns in the newspaper, listened to talk radio hosts go on about it, and now I’ve heard it from Dr. Sax, the prominent child psychologist who was the main source in Maclean’s The Collapse of Parenting feature last week.

Hell, I’ve even said it myself because enough with the neverending snacks already and maybe your three-year-old should just wear the coat you already bought her. Oh come on, you’ve done it too. “The way that mother lets her child speak to her!” “Can you believe what those parents let her wear to the dance?” I hear you.

But sweeping statements that belittle an entire generation of parents are so completely … what’s the word? Oh yeah, boring. There’s no better way to make yourself sound like an old, out-of-touch, fogey than to start wagging your finger at all the generations that come after you.

This is especially funny coming from the baby boomers because weren’t they all hippies? They were the ones who grew up preaching brotherly love, independent thought, breaking away from the system and doing away with stuffy, old formalities. So when people say that parents these days — my generation of parents — are basically huge pushovers compared to the generation before them, I honestly don’t know what they are talking about.

Of course it’s fair to examine and even criticize particular parenting beliefs and practices, especially when they are widely embraced. But it doesn’t follow that those practices reflect an entire way of life. Dr. Sax, for example, repeatedly talks about parents giving their children too much power when it comes to food in the Maclean’s article. He says parents give their children too much choice, plead and bargain with them to eat their veggies, and tend to turn consequences like “no dessert if you don’t eat your broccoli” into bribes that promise them dessert if they’ll only just eat two bites. This may or may not be a good criticism of how some parents fail to feed their kids healthy food but it’s hardly indicative of a entire generation of parents having their authority usurped by chicken finger-wielding brats. And the further claim that this has led to an epidemic of childhood obesity conveniently leaves out the fast food industry, the prevalence of HFCS/glucose-fructose, and the broader cultural trends that make us all need more exercise.

In fact, I’m not sure there has ever been a generation of parents more concerned with feeding their kids healthy food. The importance of a healthy diet is widely touted and books, magazine articles, blogs and Pinterest accounts that provide tips and recipes to make healthy food appealing to kids are insanely popular. There’s nothing remotely new about kids who don’t want to eat there vegetables. The “sit at the table until you do” approach may result in fewer desserts being eaten (and certainly more dogs being fed broccoli under the table), but I’m not convinced it actually accomplishes much more than further entrenching a deep dislike for whatever it is the kid’s supposed to be eating.

And can we stop plucking examples of how parents are failing from random observations in public places? I know we’re supposed to be 100% consistent when applying rules but I’m usually too busy being 100% human and flawed. Sometimes you just need to get through the moment, and when that moment is the exception rather than the rule (eating at a nice restaurant, for example) it hardly makes you an entire pushover

For most casual critics, I think it’s a case of their memories being fuzzy and their eyebrow-raising reflex all too sharp. It’d be nice if they’d hone their compassion and sympathy triggers instead. But, honestly, I’d be happy if they’d just mind their own business.

“I’ll tell you what my problem is.

You know I love sending the kids to school. I want them to go out in the world and meet different people and get exposed to different ideas. I want them to learn. I think school’s do a half decent job of educating most kids even though they are chronically overcrowded, underfunded, and constrained by the yoke of institutional bureaucracy. Besides, it gets them out of my hair for a few hours.

But my problem. My problem is when the school system insists on thrusting the asinine prescriptions of institutional bureaucracy on our home life. I can’t engage my children in the learning opportunities they want and need after school because I need to stand over them, making sure they write the same sentence over and over until a seed of bitter resentment for all books and learning takes a firm root in their soul.”

I pick up a tea towel and walk into the next room.

“Ed? Are you listening?”

“What’s that?”

And this is why I have a blog.

My god, do I hate homework. I actually didn’t mind it when I only had one academically-inclined kid in school who was young enough that the teacher put the homework sheet directly into his backpack. I would sit him up at the dining room table and he would read the instructions and fill out the sheet. Easy peasy! Now, that same kid wouldn’t remember to bring the right books home if the Maple Leaf’s season depended on it.

Nonetheless, I was all set to send the kids back to school with the right “can do” attitude. I would simply be more organized and efficient and see to it that healthy homework routines became a priority. Cue Sunday night when I was lining up the kids’ backpacks and making sure they were cleaned out and ready to go. Crumpled at the bottom of my son’s backpack is a handout detailing the public speaking contest all the kids were required to enter and asking that an outline be submitted on the first day back. What. The.

Homework over the holidays?! A speech, no less! So clearly we had to spend all evening on Monday completing the outline which left no time for the other work he was supposed to do (not that he brought the books home anyway). Nor did it leave any time for me to oversee his first little sister’s homework or supervise his littlest sister instead of letting her log hours of screen time and then pull out every article of clothing she owns and strew them around the house.

My anxiety over my inability to keep up with the kids’ school work and also help them with areas they struggle with (ie. organization, reading, picking up after themselves) was mounting. Yes, I could hire a tutor or even just a teenager to oversee my daughter’s homework and help her with reading. But I only work while the kids are at school (or after they are bed when I have to). I have arranged my life so that I should have enough time for this stuff. I don’t even put them in after-school activities (except for one hockey practice per week apiece). I could hire someone, but I am the one who actually knows what they need.

And that’s when it dawned on me. I am the one who knows. I need to spend one-on-one time with each child supporting their learning every evening. I can do that, but not when that time is wholly consumed by rote learning assignments that squander whatever mental energy that’s left after the school day and leaves the kids spent. The number one most important thing for my daughter’s learning right now is to sit and read with me every single day, for example.

So that’s what I’m going to do. I will incorporate the homework and school material into our reading as much as possible, but I’m also setting a time limit on how much learning work they do each night. No more tears, no more tantrums, no more late nights. If the only half the homework gets completed, so be it.

I couldn’t care less about grades at this point, after all. (My kids are in grades 4, 2 and junior kindergarten.) What’s important is that they learn, have fun, enjoy school and establish healthy and productive work habits.

I read the Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up this year too. As I sit here typing at my dining room table because the teetering pile of papers on my desk finally came crashing down into the spot where my laptop goes, I keep getting lost in daydreams where a crane lifts my house up by the corner and shakes all of it’s contents into a giant dumpster to be hauled away. (In this fantasy I’ll also pay someone to pick through the dumpster and donate anything that’s in good condition, so you eco-loving do-gooders can relax.) I don’t think I can ever keep up with the sheer volume of stuff that gets carted into this house on a daily basis by my children, husband, and sundry friends and relations, and (I’ll admit it) sometimes I bring stuff home too. But I can damn well try.

Yet here we are, deep in the holiday season, with parcels tucked away in closets across the land, rolling up our sleeves, and getting ready to plunge into the deepest recess of the suburban mall in order to buy more stuff. Stuff for you, and you, and you! If I really love you, I’ll give you even more stuff!

It’s inevitable, really. Exchanging gifts is a nice holiday tradition and the anticipation of Christmas morning followed by the great reveal of brimful stockings and shiny, new Santa toys is one of the great delights of childhood. So we get more stuff; it’s worth it.

Still, less is more. Here are some gift ideas that are thoughtful yet small.

Subscriptions and memberships

There are more subscription digital services than ever that cater to every member of my family. There are two that I use all the time. Ooka Island is a fantastic online reading program for kids ages four to seven. (They are also a blog sponsor. You can read more about them here.) Cook Smarts is an online meal planning service that offers recipes and a shopping list for four dinners a week (each meal has has a vegetarian, gluten-free, and paleo recipe, too). I’ve been using it since the spring and truly love it. (Use the coupon code PLAYCOOK15 to save 15% on subscriptions until Jan. 15, 2016.) It has revolutionized weeknight dinners for my family.  You can also buy family memberships to the Ontario Science Centre, ROM, AGO, Toronto Zoo, and your own local equivalents.

Books

I think the value of real paper books are still more than worth their shelf space, and there’s no need to hold onto any of them forever and ever either. (She says as she side-eyes those Aristotle paperbacks from university.) Here are a couple favourites from local authors that have come across my desk this year. The Art of the Possible by Edward Keenan, Toronto Star columnist and my husband, explains how politics actually works for kids ages 10 – 14ish. The Joy of Missing Out by Christina Crook, Toronto writer and mother of three, is an inspiring look at what happens when you unplug from technology and embrace life in the moment. It will make you rethink your relationship with technology. Finally, Parenting Through the Storm by everyone’s favourite pregnancy writer, Ann Douglas, is guide to navigating the minefield of parenting children who struggle with mental, behavioral or neurological disorders.

ONE thing

Sometimes you want to give a child a toy and see their faces light up and get all the glory, their parents’ clutter situation be damned. FAIR ENOUGH. Now look at the pile of stuff in your basket, choose the one thing you think they’d like, and put everything else back. If the child loves Maplelea dolls, for example, a new outfit for her doll is a lovely gift. If she likes Star Wars, maybe one action figure from the new movie would be nice. You can fluff it up with stickers and candy (but don’t tell the parents you heard that here) if you think it’s not quite enough.

Consumables

That brings me to my last point. Stuff you eat or drink, plants that eventually die (what’s that? plants aren’t supposed to be disposable? Oh.), bubble bath that gets washed away, and generally anything that gets USED UP is a wonderful gift. Affordable, slightly frivolous and entirely expendable: the ideal gift.

But, for the love of pine needles and red plaid, don’t give out anymore keepsakes. They are like weights tied around our souls. Not keeping things is the gift that keeps on giving.

Image credit via flickr cc license.

Zut alors!

News broke this morning that Canada’s new prime minister, Justin Trudeau, has two nannies paid for out of his publicly funded household budget to help care for his three young children. The CBC.ca headline read “Trudeau children’s nannies being paid for by taxpayers.” The implication is clearly that this in an indulgence. The article went on to detail exactly how much the two nannies make. (As though daytime wages of $15 – $20 an hour and overnight wages of $11 – $13 are somehow extravagant? They should make more, if anything.) It also recounted how Brian Mulroney told a reporter he would not have taxpayers pay for nannies for his kids like Pierre Trudeau did. Mulroney’s chief of staff later claimed that Mulroney only had a maid who “interfaces with the children in a habitual way.” Oh, well, then.

Because of course the prime minister will be given a fully staffed home replete with maids, housekeepers, gardeners, cooks and so on while he is serving our country. We would expect nothing less. But not nannies! Oh, no. Nannies are seen as an elite status symbol in our Canadian imagination. They conjure up ideas of mothers who are too good to care for their own children. They are too busy shopping and lunching (or working to make ends meet, but whatever) to bake cookies and read delightful stories to their kids. Presumably these families are also too good for daycare; their little princesses need to avoid the great unwashed masses of children fighting over puzzle pieces.

This confused idea that nannies are an upper crust indulgence to be sneered at runs deep. I’ve talked to several mothers who cast their eyes downward, cheeks reddening, as they admit that it looks like getting a nanny will have to be the way to go. These are mothers returning to work after having their second or third babies and realizing that the cost of daycare for multiple children coupled with the inconvenience of juggling multiple drop offs and pick ups simply doesn’t make sense. “We never thought we’d be the kind of family to have a nanny,” they say. “Isn’t it crazy? A nanny! Us! But daycare for three kids actually costs more.”

Of course it’s not crazy. If a household has two working parents, then somebody has to take care of the children. And when daycare costs for a single toddler are $1,676 per month in a city like Toronto, hiring a nanny to care for multiple children at home is a completely reasonable move. The more demanding the parents jobs, the greater the need for a nanny. Jobs that require long hours, late nights, weekends, travel, and, say, hosting dignitaries at state dinners mean that young children need to have someone else caring for them. (And I am sure that Sophie Grégoire’s duties as the prime minister’s wife also mean she can’t be on constant boo-boo kissing and nose-wiping duty either.)

I do love one thing about this story, though. I love that we are seeing pictures of Trudeau’s children in the care of their nanny. Usually kids of public figures are kept behind closed doors, taken care of by their nannies (of course). When they are brought out for photo ops with their parents, nannies and caregivers are tucked carefully out of sight. Clearly, busy, working parents cannot also take care of their children full-time. The people who are entrusted with that important job should be lauded for their role rather than shamefully hidden away.

We shouldn’t begrudge the Trudeaus’ childcare staff any more than we should any other household staff or assistants. I hear Sophie Grégoire doesn’t do her own vacuuming either!