Track Meet

Yesterday was my eight-year-old daughter's first track meet.

I learned about it purely by accident. While clearing out her backpack, I decided it was time to get rid of all the crumpled pieces of paper that line the bottom of her bag.

One of them was a form that allowed her to attend the meet.

“This is so exciting!” I said, remembering my own sprinting days fondly through the misty lens of nostalgia. You know, the one that filters out the long, anxious waits before your event, the fear of coming in last, or in my case, spending hours in the bathroom with a stomach full of nerves.

“I don't want to go,” my daughter said. “I really can't pass the baton.”

“You've been chosen to represent your school, honey,” I said. “This is a big honor.” Her event was the 4x100 relay which meant, I explained, that she was part of a team. She couldn't let her team down.

"But I need shorts!" she said.

It just so happened that I had bought her a pair of pink-and-turquoise running shorts a month earlier, in anticipation for summer, and promptly forgot about them. I presented the shorts to her now, as her special running shorts.

"I love them!" she said, and immediately put them on. "They're perfect!" There couldn't have been a better coincidence.

Next morning, I took her to school to catch the 7:45 a.m. team bus to Varsity Stadium. It was windy and chilly, and my big girl was suddenly the smallest one in the crowd. She was uncharacteristically quiet, and looked terribly nervous and shy.

Her event wasn't until lunch time. By the time I got there, the place was packed with about a thousand students and parents. Finding one child? Forget it.

I stood around, feeling the nerves again, hoping she was being looked after in this overwhelming crowd, and hoping I could position myself at the right spot on the track so I could watch her run by.

They lined up the Grade 2 teams, but I couldn't see my daughter. Then they were off. I could barely see the first two runners on the opposite side of the track, but by the time the baton was going to the third runner, I recognized the pink and turquoise shorts.

Her team was fast but, just like she said, she really couldn't pass the baton. Or receive it, for that matter. None of them could. When the number two runner approached to pass it to her, my daughter stopped running, turned around to face her teammate, took the baton, did a little skipping dance while turning around again, then bolted to catch up with the other runners.

"She still has those cheeks," I thought, as I saw her run past, her little face scrunched up against the sunlight. Then she and the fourth runner, in a comic jumble of arms, hands and fingers, somehow got the baton off again.

They didn't drop it.

I couldn't have been more proud of my girl. I called her off the track when the race was done, and she came over and let me give her a hug, before she walked off again.

"Honey," I called to her, but she was small and quick, and slipped easily through the crowd. I pushed through aggressively to keep up with her.

"Sweetie!"

“I need to find my school,” she said when I finally caught up.

Of course. They would need to account for her. And she would need her ribbon. I followed her to the north end of the track where we finally found one of her teachers. She gave my daughter a big hug, and presented her with a light blue ribbon. Eighth place. Dead last.

Another teacher, eyes bulging wide with stress, proceeded to chew me out. She scolded me for taking my daughter off the track and causing a panic when the officials couldn't find her.

"I didn't know I couldn't walk with her! There were officials who saw me take her!" I said. "I didn't even know about this meet until yesterday!"

The teacher narrowed her eyes at me. The panic of her own potential ineptitude was now no longer the issue, and she was assessing just what kind of parent she was dealing with.

"You need better communication with the parents!" I shouted. Her features suddenly softened. This was clearly a refrain she was familiar with and she flashed her "sympathetic nod" response. I realized she had sized me up as the one of the most reviled creatures in the school system: The Helicopter Mom.

At that point, we both heard my daughter's voice.

"See?" she said to her friends. She had been talking to her friends who had finished their events.

“Eighth!” she said, beaming, and proudly held up her ribbon.

The Dark Side of Neuroplasticity

There's a lot of hype these days about neuroplasticity. It's an amazing feat of the brain that allows it to change itself in response to new experiences. So much so that it can even learn to restructure neural pathways after brain damage incurred from a stroke or brain injury.

That's great for stroke victims. Sucks for parents with small children, though—especially those of us who stay at home and therefore spend way too much time with them.

Before kids I was happy, bright and focused. I could spend hours absorbed in my work, or a book. But since kids my neuroplastic brain has turned to silly putty.

Part of the problem with many moms is that we care too much. We engage.

We get involved in petty squabbles between siblings, hunt for a missing sock for much, much longer than we should. 

Worst of all, we keep trying to answer those baffling questions kids blindside us with. Questions that on the surface seem answerable, but, like a Chinese finger puzzle, become harder the more you try.

For example, my eldest daughter asked this over breakfast yesterday, as I was trying to figure out what to pack in her lunch box:

“Why are there days of the week?”

My answer: “Uhhh...because—well, if you divide the year up...” but it was too long a response time, and they lost interest. To be honest, so did I.

Then, from her four-year-old brother: “Why can't we have Fruit Loops for breakfast?” (with a look of genuine disappointment, like we had never had the discussion.)

“Fruit Loops aren't a healthy breakfast.”

“Why aren't Fruit Loops healthy?”

“Well, there's something called high-fructose corn syrup, and...” Blank stares.

I was in the middle of thinking, “I know I'm smarter than this,” when the middle child suddenly remembered something.

“Mom, Mom, MOM!!” she shouted. “Can we make a crazy sandwich and online it to iCarly?”

At the time this statement was impossible for me to translate. I had no idea what my daughter was talking about. Still, a less emotionally-invested person (i.e. any male relative) would simply say, “Yes!” and let the kids just try to follow through on it.

But it wasn't that simple for me. I was concerned about the mess that could possibly ensue from letting kids make any sandwich, let alone a crazy one. Then there would probably be some attempt to stuff the sandwich into the computer. It was over. I was engaged.

I tried to answer, and felt a thick, sleepy fog descend over me. I asked about the episode of iCarly, then went through a lengthy explanation about why you can't “online” a sandwich, expounded upon what being online really means and, finally, dealt with the resulting disappointment about the matter.

By the end I was sunk deep into a mental quagmire and barely able to remember the names of my own children, let alone what I should pack for my daughter's lunch.

This is not the case for dads.

They just seem to lack the part of the brain that gets all wound up about explaining things. They care less. They are less engaged. That whole “emotionally unavailable” thing that men have? Turns out it's not a handicap! It's a cunning self-defense mechanism against the darker side of neuroplasticity.

For as many moms know, though you might have been a successful criminal prosecutor, a star chemical engineer or, as in my case, an almost-award-winning financial journalist, you will wave goodbye to any intellect you had when you leave your job and spend large amounts of time with small children.

But it's OK, because by the time the last of that intellect permanently evaporates, you won't even remember that old you.

Discipline and Celebrity Dolphins

In mid-December of last year, when the agony of getting the kids into three layers of clothing every morning reached peak intensity, I had an epiphany.

My usual approach to get everyone out the door on time--loud, accusatory sighs, shouting, arm-waving, and then a final, angry lecture--wasn't working so well. 

"Be more strict," my husband offered as he flew down the stairs, past the mayhem and out the door on his way to work. It was his way of helping.

As for the kids, they seemed mildly entertained. They would get progressively goofier and sillier as my own frustration increased, like rebellious baboons banding together under threat of a screaming chimp.

By the time we all traipsed into school late, the kids actually thought it was all quite fun. They found camaraderie with other late kids. My youngest, not yet in kindergarten, demanded the school secretary give him a late slip, too, so he could be like his big sisters. 

Clearly, I needed a new approach. I flipped through my mental catalog of Supernanny episodes, and decided a reward system would work better.

The kids had recently seen the movie A Dolphin Tale. It tells the true story of a dolphin named Winter who, as a wee dolphin calf, got caught in a crab trap in the Gulf of Mexico, then washed ashore near Clearwater, Florida. 

Beached, and with a gravely wounded, infected tail, the dolphin seemed doomed. Winter was rescued, but her infected tail had to go. The dolphin vet at Clearwater had to amputate.

Of course, a dolphin sort of needs a tail. A good, strong tail, one might say, is a dolphin's raison d'etre. Without one, a dolphin won't be able to swim, hunt for food, or attract a mate. So the staff at the Clearwater Marine Aquarium made her a prosthetic tail.

The movie was a big hit. Love triumphs over Darwinism.

It just so happens that the Clearwater Aquarium is about two hours' drive from the place we stay when we go to Florida for March break, which we were doing this year.

I told the kids that we could go see the dolphin if we all got to school on time, most days of the week, until March break.

I still did my fair share of arm waving and shouting, but now I added “And don't you want to see Winter?” to the mix. 

It worked. When I reminded the kids of their favorite celebrity dolphin, they tried harder, and most days we made it on time.

So, when we finally got to Florida several months later, we were on the hook. 

“We're not really taking them to see an amputee dolphin,” said my husband. "Are we?" 

The look of resignation in his eyes told me he knew he wouldn't win this one.

“We made a deal,” I said. “What do you suggest we do?”

He called our eldest daughter, who is nearly 8, and was the ringleader of the campaign to see Winter. She scampered into his lap, pretending to be an eager puppy sitting up on hind legs. She made her eyes big and bright with anticipation.

“Fifty bucks,” said my husband. “I'll give you fifty bucks to not go see Winter. You guys can all go get a new toy.”

“No way,” said our daughter flatly.

“A hundred.”

“Nope.”

“Name your price,” he said.

“A gazillion dollars,” she said, and stuck her thumb in her mouth, glowering at him. End of conversation.

“OK, what about Busch Gardens,” said my husband. “We could go there. They have roller coasters and a zoo.”

She stopped sucking her thumb. “A zoo?”

“Sounds fun,” I said. “But let's check the price on that.”

It was five times the price of admission to the Clearwater aquarium—not quite a gazillion dollars, but close. He gave up.

“We're going to see Winter,” he said, shoulders slumped.

We read Google reviews to see what we should expect. 

“Long lines,” wrote one person. “And the tanks are filthy.”

“We traveled from New York to see Winter,” wrote one enthusiastic fan. “Our son has autism. Winter is an inspiration to us all!”

"Oh no," my husband groaned.

“Nothing to see,” wrote another. “Hardly any animals. You might get a glimpse of Winter if you're lucky.”

“It's perfect,” I said. “We'll be in and out in an hour.”

Upon our arrival at the aquarium, we took our place in line with tourists from all over North America and Europe to see this inspirational dolphin. While waiting to buy our tickets, we noticed a sign out front.

“Clearwater Marine Aquarium,” it read. “Rescue. Rehabilitate. Release.”

“Release?” my husband scoffed. “There's no way that money-churner is being released.”

It was a little too loud. The family of normal, sensitive people behind us--their daughter in a leg brace-- looked offended.

It was all kind of depressing--for the dolphins more than for us. I'm no expert, but I've seen dolphins in the wild. They don't do a lot of tricks, usually.

There were some happy moments at Clearwater. Watching our youngest cover his eyes when he saw an eel in a tank was pretty funny. Watching Winter strain to do her show-the-tail-stump-to-the-crowds trick was not.

By far the biggest bonus, we thought, was that our eldest daughter was now obsessed with dolphins. One of nature's quieter animals, one would think, being underwater and all.

Our daughter's fascination with all predators means we have been subjected to, on a daily basis, gutteral roars, hawk screeches, and her interpretation of a velociraptor squawk.

So an obsession with a relatively quiet, underwater creature obsession was a welcome relief. Until we heard the incredibly shrill call that dolphins actually make.

Bad enough on its own, but when she saw the trainer imitating the dolphin's shriek, we knew we were done for.

All the way home in the car: shrill dolphin screech-cries from the eldest interspersed with her four-year-old brother's cry of “Shaaaadaaap!!” When I glanced in back at them, our long-suffering middle child had her hands covering her ears.

My husband drove on, hunched, jaw tense, eyes bulging, bracing himself against the onslaught of noise. He looked like someone had scooped his soul out of his body.

"Good idea," he said, managing a smile.

Body Renos

It all started with a mole.

During my checkup last year, my doctor noticed a mole that looked a little smudged. She removed it. Just to be on the safe side, she referred me to a dermatologist to have him look at my other moles.

I have a lot of these “beauty spots”-- my preferred term. Under the unforgiving fluorescent light of the dermatologist's office, I had to strip completely from head to toe while he used a giant magnifying glass, lit with yet another fluorescent light, to scrutinize every inch of my skin.

“You know this is a woman's worst nightmare,” I said to him.

“Well, at least you shaved your legs,” he said with a pinched little smile. “So we're good.”

Bitch, I thought to myself.

He then found my birthmark, at my hairline. I was told to remove it when I was 13, but at that point in my life I had seen too many milk cartons with photos of missing children on them. The usual identifier? A birthmark. I thought it best to keep mine, lest I be kidnapped at some point and have nothing special about me for my mom and the police to write on a milk carton.

That was then. Now that I am a mother of three pushing 40, I can only dream about being kidnapped. It was time for the birthmark to go.

The thing exceeded the diameter of what was removable in a dermatologist's office. He said I'd have to see a plastic surgeon.

I'm going to pause here for a personal history moment.

I come from Vancouver Island, where many people are fans of the “natural” or “outdoorsy” look. Mussed hair, over-sized second-hand sweaters over scruffy jeans--it's a look that is carefully contrived to show you don't give a shit about the dull, conventional ways that employed people dress. Here in Toronto this look is called “disheveled hippie” or even “depressed halfway-house dweller.”

But I was brought up to fiercely protect the natural look. I was weaned on Free To Be You And Me and The Paper Bag Princess. I came of age reading Our Bodies Ourselves at Lilith Fair.

All the self-acceptance and feminism, however, couldn't crush my vanity.

The plastic surgeon's office was the forbidden fruit.

I'm sure some of his patients were the real deal – people who'd had unfortunate, disfiguring accidents or needed reconstructive surgery after a mastectomy.

But not the couple with identical facelifts sitting next to me. Their eyebrows were arched in an aloof, mildly curious way that remained unchanged whether they were reading magazines or talking to each other.

The doctor's assistant came out and greeted them. They were waiting to take their friend home.

“Is she rejuvinated?” asked the woman, her brow still immobile but her eyes wild with enthusiasm. This was place where shallow, self-absorbed, bored people could cater to their vain whims.

I felt right at home. You didn't even need the 20 large in your pocket. All you had to do was drain your savings and apply for a Capital One card.

It was okay to be selfish here, to take a risk and make a big change. And as such it was a terribly exciting place to be.

Upon seeing the surgeon, he said I should indeed have the disagreeable spot removed. Seven little stitches along the hairline. “It will give you a slight temporal lift,” he said. It was covered under OHIP.

He glanced at my intake form.

“Other than this, you are a healthy, 38-year-old woman?” There it was. A slight emphasis on that evil number, 38. An invitation to enhancement.

“Yes,” I said, beginning to perspire a little. “I am. Healthy.”

“Alright, if there's anything else I can do for you, let me know.”

The surgeon smiled. It was a warm, friendly, comforting smile. A new, perfect body seemed so entirely possible.

Three weeks later I found myself deep into a mental rabbit hole at JustBreastImplants.com. Women were talking saline and silicone like guys talk V-6 and V-8 engines.

“Just replaced my 350cc's with 750s,” wrote one woman. “Barely made it to the big girls' club, but I did!”

“Couldn't wait for my 1000's!” enthused another. “They're much heavier than my 650s. I need to wear support 24/7.”

“I can't wait for a reason to need a bra 24/7,” gushed another woman.

But for every enthusiastic new recipient, there were several posts from women whose surgery wasn't quite right. One boob bigger than the other, or hanging differently, or it leaked, or they got the wrong size implant, or there was something called a capsular contracture. (Google it.)

“Having issues shaving my armpits,” wrote someone called Leesa. “The implant is still so high and in the way.”

Tummy tuck recipients needed to take several weeks off from any lifting or driving, and had tubes in them after surgery to drain the fluid that accumulates after you're flayed.

How did they do it? How do women with careers and families have the time for elective surgery?

I was pondering this question one evening in the bathroom. I had just finished having a shower when my five-year-old barged in, unannounced and unapologetic.

“Um, may I have some privacy please?” I said. All the plastic surgery thoughts were having an effect on my self-esteem.

My daughter looked me over and started to giggle.

“What?” I said, feeling a little more self-conscious than usual.

“I love your boobies, Mama,” she said. “They're so silly. They look like googly-eyes.”

I still can't figure out why I took it as a compliment, but I did.

Party Hats

When our eldest daughter was five--this was a couple years back--she came into our bedroom early one morning and started rifling through our nightstand. We had long ago given up defending the “Master Retreat” we'd fantasized about while house-hunting several years back. In place of the relaxing, romantic bed-and-reading chamber we'd envisioned, what had developed was some sort of feral sleep den.

As our daughter marched in, unannounced of course, and opened one of our drawers, my husband and I suddenly turned to each other, eyes wide.

There was a box of condoms in there.

These were not just any boring Trojans with boring packaging that she might ignore. These were condoms in all the colors, textures and flavors of the rainbow, including glow-in-the-dark.

This particular box of “party hats,” as my husband calls them, came in packaging that had cool splotches of neon graffiti art and silly cartoon characters on it.

All of which was instantly appealing to a five-year-old.

“What are these?” our daughter asked.

I panicked, and said the first thing that came into my head. “Oh! Don't touch those! It's mommy's candy.”

Yes, that's what I called condoms. Mommy's candy.

“Candy!” she shouted indignantly. “Why do you get candy?”

“It's grown-up candy,” I said. “You won't like it. It tastes like coffee.”

Our daughter seemed to accept this, and the day went by without further mention of it.

The following week, I was vacuuming under the same daughter's bed, when the vacuum's hose suddenly became clogged. It made a peculiar high-pitched wheezing sound, like air being slowly released out of a balloon.

Something rubber was in there.

I untwisted a wire hanger and poked around in the hose. What came out were four unrolled condoms. I looked at my daughter, who was standing nearby.

“They're not candy,” she said, with a look of disgust.

“No honey, they're not.”

“What are they?”

“They're to keep mommy and daddy from having more babies.”

A big smile lit up her sweet little face. She had never really forgiven us for bringing not one, but two, younger siblings into her life. Condoms might not be candy, but they were, in Martha Stewart's words, a very good thing.

Primping the Nest

A few home improvements have been pending since we bought our first house four years ago and realized we didn't have a landlord to take care of us anymore. The jobs had accumulated—badly-needed wallpaper removal, some proper light fixtures, some curtains and blinds, and a coat of fresh paint.

My husband and I are not home reno types. We're proud of ourselves if we manage to vacuum the carpet or rake leaves.

We weren't always so negligent. When my husband and I met 10 years ago, he had built a rooftop deck for his apartment and I had just finished painting my whole apartment—in two days, ceilings included. We thought we were capable people.

Then the kids came along.

Now we can barely keep one room tidy, let alone make time for home improvements. At almost any hour, you will find dishes in our kitchen sink. The main floor dining table is a repository for bills. On the coffee table, books and the week's newspapers pile up. I keep collecting them, in denial of the fact that I don't actually read anymore. In the basement, toys lay strewn about like shrapnel after a mess explosion.

I never thought anyone but us would care, but I was wrong.

“I love you guys,” one of our neighbors said dryly. She's renovating her three-storey from top to bottom. “You moved in and didn't do a thing.”

Hers wasn't the only back-handed compliment. Friends who visited often remarked, “Nice place! There's so much potential!”

When our mailman confessed he was concerned he might step on the wrong spot of our front steps and end up with a two-by-four in the face, we finally got the message. Time to suffer through renos like all the other grown-ups we know.

I'm sure what those other grown-ups wanted was for me to taste that bitter regret you have when you can only access your house from the back door, your furniture is pulled away from the walls, your house is covered in the fine, powdery dust leftover after drywall repair and painting, your bank account is dwindling, you and your spouse aren't speaking to each other anymore, and all the stuff that's usually kept in cupboards and on shelves is sitting in the middle of your living room.

The inconvenience of it all makes you wonder: What was so wrong with some peeling wallpaper in the first place? And couldn't the mailman figure out how to get around that bad stair? Couldn't he see the slapstick hilarity of getting a two-by-four in the face?

By the standards of middle-class Toronto housewives, last month was only mildly trying. We did not, as many do, relocate our family to a cramped apartment and learn how most of Toronto actually lives, all while borrowing the equivalent of our life savings to finance a gut job. We merely had our deck fixed, painted the walls, pulled up a bit of carpet, and installed some new light fixtures.

It did render us semi-homeless for a while though, and momentarily broke, as we paid out tradespeople. And it wasn't fun keeping the kids out from morning to night, dragging them from to one time-killing activity after another as we tried to avoid things like our son getting naked and leaning against freshly-painted trim or our daughter finger-painting on the floor with a mixture of drywall dust and milk (both of which did eventually happen). 

Though it is dusty and in disarray, our house does look a little better.

More importantly, however, I lost weight. Just a little bit but a couple of people noticed. Turns out even minor renovations are terrible for keeping regular meal times and eating in general. I missed breakfast every day for two weeks, and was running about so much that I forgot to do my usual furtive eating between meals. I lost a pound-and-a-half without even trying.

As the Italians say: Since the house is on fire, at least we can warm ourselves.

A Positive She-Male Role Model

I didn't post last week; it's been that special kind of busy that happens when your spouse is away.

It's not just the lack of another pair of grown-up hands. What's particularly trying is the emotional toll on the kids, who miss their dad and have an upset routine.

My kids seem to sit in a persistent malaise when their dad is away for long. They inevitably become fascinated with other guys around them—usually manly guys doing manly things. Guys doing construction work, stocking product at the local grocery store, fixing the road, pruning trees.

This time, they slouched around watching a carpenter we've hired to fix our front porch. They asked him questions about his circular saw, how many kids he has, and whether he had built them a tree house.

When a painter came over to do an estimate, my son, who is three, hugged his leg and wouldn't let go.

But it wasn't until one particular morning that I really understood, in the most visceral way, a boy's need for a male role model.

After I saw my girls onto their school bus, I had about 45 minutes to kill with my son until his preschool began.

Let's be ambulance drivers,” he said. This is a game we sometimes play when we're walking somewhere, just to pass the time. He pretends to turn on flashing lights and drives me, the other ambulance driver, as we try to figure out what to do about--as my son puts it-- “the guy in the back with his leg broke off.”

When playing the ambulance driver game, my son finds it necessary for both of us to speak in deep, masculine, ambulance-driver voices.

This time, we played for a bit but soon I got bored. Plus, my vocal chords were feeling a little strained with all the man-talk. I decided we'd go for a coffee.

It was crowded in the coffee shop, and my son was getting a little restless. We got to the front of the line and I ordered a coffee for me and hot chocolate for him—in my normal voice, of course.

“NO!” shouted my son. “We're AM-bulance drivers!”

“It's a game we play,” I said apologetically to the cashier, who smiled weakly, then lifted her eyes to the next customer. We moved down the counter to wait for our drinks.

“You know,” I said to my son. “There are lots of girl ambulance drivers.”

“No!” he said. He seemed to be gathering steam, but then our order came.

I now had two hot drinks to pick up, one in either hand.

“Thank you,” I said politely to the barista. Then I turned to my son and offered him his drink.

"Here's your hot chocolate," I said in that saccharine, placating voice that panicked moms get when they're trying to ward off a meltdown.

“No!” shouted my son. “It's COFFEE!" 

"Ambulance drivers drink hot chocolate," I said, completely missing the point. 

"Say AM-bulance driver words!” commanded the mini dictator.

Crying and totally frustrated, he dropped to the floor.

Here was my choice. In a packed coffee shop, I could speak to my son in a deep, macho voice, or I could let him continue to scream and go floppy, put down the coffees, pick him up and leave.

I think it's testament to just how badly I wanted that coffee: I chose the voice.

“Come on,” I boomed gruffly. “Let's go check on our truck.” I think I even spoke out of the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah,” said my son, smiling through tears. And we swaggered out of there together as ambulance drivers—one of them a pint-sized coffee drinker and the other a sort of confused man-mom.