tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27219278966797593862024-03-13T14:01:34.561-07:00Life at the Zoo...I never thought I would ever blog, but as the chaos-meter reaches new heights, hopefully this will help me preserve my sanity and also immortalize the antics of my 4 rugrats (read hooligans).Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.comBlogger420125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-46643253579841592192020-04-12T19:10:00.002-07:002020-04-12T19:10:27.027-07:00Easter 2020This year is the first year I've not spent Easter morning in church, in Windsor with my family - my parents, my siblings, my own children. Covid19 has certainly changed the world, our ways of living, our ways of relating to others, our ways of celebrating both life and death. Every day, a new statistic of the number of positive cases and number of deaths bombards us. News media sites hail grim stories of countries losing more lives, articles critical of certain political leaders, first hand accounts from the front line medical staff of how dangerously quick this virus can attack a human. Small businesses are likely unable to survive the emergency measures shuttering non-essential operations, certain races are more likely to suffer greater losses due to poverty, lack of medical insurance or simply because they are considered to be "essential" workers, often in the service industry paying low wages. Nothing is more heartbreaking than the knowledge that many are dying alone, unable to feel the ungloved touch of a loved one, or hear the whisper of a final goodbye.<br />
For the past month, I've been filled with gratitude at having the ability to carry out my job at home, and not worry about whether or not I need to defer a mortgage payment or wonder if I could feed my children, or how to get to a food bank. I am extremely fortunate that my spouse is also able to work from home. Although many days I've nearly torn my hair out at the chaos of having all the children at home, and setting up "my office" at the dinner table between the two younger ones and their Chromebooks is simply a recipe for insanity, I remind myself that other children in my own neighbourhood have to share a laptop to access their daily on-line class work. Having to answer or read yet another math question again and work through it, or counting out the beat for piano practice, I am reminded again why I never pursued a career in education. We've lost track of the days of the week, and it's looking like I'll have to add "barber" to my list of talents soon. Like many, the first few days of the social distancing and stay at home was filled with family board games and lots of baking, but now, it's a daily battle to get the kids out the door for fresh air and pry them from the video games.<br />
At this point, it doesn't appear we're close to "flattening the curve" or even the "peak" of this pandemic. The bureaucrats are stating many more weeks of social distancing, and I'm betting school is not happening on May 4. Standing in line at the grocery store is becoming routine, and now there's another email informing summer hockey is cancelled. Who knows when life will return to "normal" or if it ever will.<br />
As for many, it's been difficult to be far away from family. Never more so than now. I am fortunate that my mother has both my brother and sister nearby.<br />
This past year has been difficult for all of to navigate - trying to understand this grief process, to be supportive of each other whilst struggling with our own sadness and missing our Dad so much. Each birthday or holiday is bittersweet. Sometimes the memories of past celebrations is almost too much to bear. At the birth of Wellesley, Dad's 10th grandchild - all I could think of was how happy he would have been to meet him. Yet I know he's been watching from heaven, smiling and beaming with pride. He's also likely shaking his head with a grin, calling Devlin's arm flexing "mosquito bites". <br />
But with this covid19 pandemic gripping our world this year, I am thankful, in an odd way, that we lost our Dad last year. (I hate that term "lost", but I know where he is, and it's not like we misplaced him.) With every story I read about the limited number of ICU beds and ventilators in our country, and decisions being made as to which patient should receive possibly life-saving treatment, I have to stop myself from going down the road of what-ifs. What if Dad had gone into cardiac arrest this year? Would the doctors have listened to my family saying don't stop trying to save him? What if there wasn't a bed available in the ICU? What if the doctors decided my dad - a man of God, a loving husband, a survivor, an idealist, a dreamer, a father and grandfather - didn't get a ventilator? What if only one or two family members were allowed to be with him? What if hospice wasn't an option? What if? What if? I have to stop because I don't want to even consider the scenarios.<br />
Rather, I want to reflect on the generous time we were given to hope and pray for my Dad, to hold his hand, to hug him, to love him, to sing to him, to gather as a family, to encircle him with love. To be given the precious opportunity to express our gratitude to him for being a strong role model, our cheerleader always, father and grandfather, to pray with him, to love him and hold onto him. To touch him without gloves. It seems like a luxury today that we were all given those weeks to prepare, somewhat, for that final moment. And for that gift, I am thankful.<br />
Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-19060337626688985162019-06-02T16:21:00.001-07:002019-06-11T16:02:37.128-07:00A Love like No OtherThroughout these months of my father's devastating illness, my mother has maintained a steadfast belief in his recovery. In the days and weeks following the cardiac arrest and the catastrophic ensuing events, my mother remained at this bedside, holding his hand, caring for him, documenting every sign of improvement, celebrating every tiny victory and reminding Dad that he promised they would live together forever. We all prayed for God's healing touch. Every night, Mom begged God to heal him. And to us, she'd state she couldn't live without Dad.<br />
My parents have been married just shy of 50 years. They met at church, when he was a penniless student, and she was starting her nursing career. My parents never really talked much about their courtship when we were young. The story of how my dad took her for a walk to a cafe for their first date where they shared a glass of orange juice (very expensive in post war Korea, my dad always pointed out) varied a little with each re-telling. My mother's family was dead set against the idea of her marrying a student, and only son of a widow when there were more attractive prospects for my mother. My dad persisted though. He was a dreamer and an idealist. So even though he was leaving for Canada on a scholarship, he asked my mother to marry him. As per tradition, he also asked her parents, three times, for my mother's hand in marriage. And was flatly denied three times.<br />
With a plane ticket in his hand, my mom and dad got married, aided by my paternal grandmother. The ceremony was moved up by an hour so my maternal uncles couldn't stop the wedding. Dad got on his plane and the wedding feast with an absent groom was held.<br />
My parents started this marriage separated by an ocean. Mom immigrated to Canada two years later. Dad earned his Master's degree from the University of Windsor, and I was born a few days after the convocation ceremony.<br />
Over the years, they added three more children to their family. My paternal grandmother lived with us, helping to care for us and parent us. Throughout their marriage, my parents were separated by distance. My dad took on teaching positions in St. John's, Halifax, and Korea. We remained in Windsor, and saw Dad when he was visited monthly. Then he decided to answer God's call and studied theology at the University of Toronto. And during his career in ministry, there was more separation when Dad took on a pastoral charge in Vancouver.<br />
Throughout these separations, my parents' marriage remained strong. I have no doubt it was difficult for my mother, raising children whilst working full time as a nurse. My grandmother certainly was an integral part of our lives, caring for us, waking us, walking us to school when mom's shifts prevented her from being present at home.<br />
As difficult as those years must have been, these past 12 weeks have been, understandably, the most trying for mom. Every week, she has had to adjust her visions for the future. In the beginning, it was enough to be grateful Dad was still with us. We believed he would recover and come home in a few weeks. Then we learned about the anoxic brain injury, and worried about paralysis. Mom's expectations adjusted. Life with a wheelchair if he was paralyzed was envisioned. She pictured herself wheeling Dad in autumn to meet his newest grandchild. Then we learned he had lost his eyesight. Dad loved to read. Mom's dreams once again adjusted to take on this challenge.<br />
Dad had a tracheal tube inserted. We adjusted to a future where we wouldn't hear his voice. More heartbreaking was the knowledge that Dad would never sing again.<br />
When it became clear the brain injury affected his ability to swallow and a feeding tube was required, Mom took this in stride, wallowing in her disappointment only briefly. As in many families, our celebrations revolved around big family dinners, late midnight snacks, and relishing a good bottle of wine. It was more important that Dad was still with us. Living out their retirement at home or a condo once again adapted to one in a nursing home or long term care facility.<br />
His spirit and determination to recover remained as steadfast as Mom's. Dad never once complained of, or indicated he was in pain. But the various infections proved too much for Dad's weakened state. The medical doctors counselled on the grim prognosis.<br />
Mom struggled to accept and finally make the decision to pursue palliative care for Dad last week. His wish was to come home. Understandably tormented, there were many many tear filled conversations amongst us. Unfortunately, Dad began to deteriorate before we were able to fulfill his wish. The doctors had warned us three days ago he only had hours to live, but he hung on.<br />
As Dad lays in his hospital bed, his breathing labored, it's becoming evident we don't have much time left with him. His four children and his true love are gathered around his bed. We share our memories of Dad, gently tease each other, laughing and relishing the love. Sometimes I'd think he's hanging on because he wants to be part of the fun.<br />
We gather, and we gently clean him. Wiping off the sticky residue from the various bandages. Massaging lotion into his arms and legs, rubbing his feet. Shaving his face, smoothing cream onto his cheeks. Cleaning his mouth. Adjusting his bedding. Everything. We talk to him. We tell him we love him. We thank him for being the wonderful loving father and grandfather he has been. Though he grew up without a father, he tackled and conquered fatherhood, leaving us with a legacy and big shoes to fulfill as parents ourselves. Even now, we're learning of the special treats he would share with each child separately. I never knew, until a few days ago, that Dad would bring home chocolates for my youngest sister on the sly, and then hide the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can so no one, including Mom, would be none the wiser.<br />
We cling to him, taking turns to hold his hand, stroke his forehead, gently massage his feet. But his response is only for mom. Only when Mom holds his hands and tell him she loves him, does he turn towards her voice and nods. I can't bear to watch. The love between them is overpowering. Growing up, I hardly ever saw them display affection in public. Rarely did I see them hold hands. But there was never a doubt my parents loved each other with every fiber of their being. It was evident in their actions, their teasing and the sacrifices they made for each other. My mother took up piano a few years ago, long after sacrificing to provide music lessons for all of us. Last year, my dad purchased a grand piano for her. So she could practice on the best.<br />
I don't think Dad is ready to be parted from Mom, his life long partner.<br />
<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-10632680750404852802019-03-21T21:01:00.000-07:002019-03-21T21:01:31.616-07:00Dad's HandsMy dad is in the ICU. A few weeks ago, we all thought he had a simple cold. None of us realized it was pneumonia nor the dangers it posed to my father who underwent a bypass surgery a couple of years ago. Leaving the doctor's office with a prescription for antibiotics, my dad was overcome with weakness and could no longer stand. Passersby assisted by mother. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest ER. While being assessed, his heart stopped. My dad was resuscitated but he would go into cardiac arrest several more times. Each time, his will to survive and the medical team brought him back. By the time I was able to reach his side, he had stabilized. Nothing short of a miracle. He continued to hang on, and ever so slowly, his vital signs improved over the next 48 hours.<br />
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.<br />
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.<br />
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.<br />
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.<br />
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.<br />
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.<br />
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.<br />
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.<br />
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.<br />
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.<br />
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring. His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.<br />
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.<br />
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.<br />
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren. <br />
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.<br />
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.<br />
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-61862675528915144342018-10-31T18:04:00.001-07:002018-10-31T18:04:39.498-07:00Memories of my First Halloween This year, I can sit at home and give out treats, enjoying the silence of a normally chaotic home. All the kids are trick or treating with their pals, and Daddy is out supervising the boys. Fortunately, the rain stopped and it's actually warm for an October night. I'm seeing more trick or treaters than usual.<br />
As I hand out treats to little goblins, I am overcome by the memory of my very first Halloween ever.<br />
My parents, being recent immigrants from Korea, had never heard of this tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door to receive candy. That didn't happen in Korea, at least not back then.<br />
We were at my surrogate Grandfather's home, and he came down with a ratty looking pillow case, and beckoned me to follow. I remember going around his neighbourhood, shyly repeating "trick or treat" and getting CANDY in the pillowcase. What an exciting experience! I think I was 3 or 4 years old. I wasn't ever allowed to eat candy! But that night, I got to indulge in everything I had earned from my trek.<br />
The following year, I remember my dad taking me out in our neighbourhood. My mom hadn't quite gotten the idea of a costume, but I remember wearing an uncomfortable plastic Wonder Woman mask that cut into my face and getting more candy than the previous year.<br />
As the years went on, our costumes got better. Mom made a witch costume, and I remember someone being a bunny. My younger sister still uses the jack o'lantern outfit mom made for her thirty years ago.<br />
Dr. Toop was a crusty bachelor who didn't really participate in children's activities, but I know he made an exception for me. Instead of candy though, I think he gave out pennies. It has been several years now since our surrogate Grandfather passed away. He was a huge part of my life, from introducing me to Halloween, to helping me with science projects and teaching us all how to curse. His driving tips still stick with me - it's safe to change lanes when you can see the other car's bumper in your rear view mirror, and you know you've gone too far when you hear a sickening crunch! I learned how to tile a wall, and how to polish a floor with wax (a skill I will likely never use again). Dr. Toop was with Dad and me when I opened my first bank account at age six and then treated me to dinner at Sneaky Pete's. I remember "educational" trips to museums and going to the police auction with him to bid on a ten speed bike. I paid way too much for it and spent just as much on buying new gears, tires, and paint for it. There was a lesson in that too.<br />
What I also remember now is, while Dr. Toop introduced the Kim family to Halloween, Valentine's Day was another North American tradition (at that time) that he did NOT explain. I remember being in kindergarten, and cutting pink and red hearts to paste on an empty cracker box. Then sitting in a circle on the rug while all the other children dropped paper into the boxes, while I was at first mystified, then mortified that I had nothing to share! That was how the Kims became acquainted with Valentine's Day.<br />
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<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-38979426374982282132017-11-14T17:05:00.000-08:002017-11-14T17:05:00.644-08:00The pen is mightier than the swordWith four kids, physical fights are inevitable. I think it's unrealistic to expect children won't resort to kicking, punching, pushing, biting, pulling hair and jumping on one another to solve their conflicts. I'm not suggesting it's the preferred method to deal with differences, but it's not out of the ordinary. What we hope to accomplish as parents, in raising the hellions to become respectable citizens of this world, is to guide them away from physical aggression and to more constructive means of communication. Words. Spoken or otherwise, but words that are not hurtful. Words that can convey their frustrations and feelings of angst.<br />
Although the following pictures are over a year old, I think we're getting somewhere on that particular parenting responsibility.<br />
The following is an exchange between siblings, posted to each other's bedroom door:<br />
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And, finally, just to show that writing down one's frustrations can be a cathartic experience:<br />
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<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-6693764556658080072017-11-14T16:56:00.000-08:002017-11-14T16:56:00.569-08:00His middle name!<div class="MsoNormal">
When you have 4 kids, all attempts at watching your language
go out the window. Or at least it does in my case. For those of you whose
children have never heard a four letter word uttered in your home, unless of
course, the toilet backed up at the same time the washing machine broke down
and you dropped a wrench on your big toe, good on ya. You’re going to parent
heaven and I am burning in hell.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There you go, another 4 letter word.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there’s being the parent to a precocious, curious,
over active, mischievous child. It never fails that when I need be somewhere or
need to have Quinn do something, it doesn’t happen according to plan or
schedule.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inevitably, there will be a crash, or a thump, or an “oopsy”
and then, a “Quinn – Goddammit! Can you please ____” and fill in the blank with
whatever you want. Brush your teeth, stop touching that wire, stop
hitting/scratching/kicking, stop picking your nose, get out the door, pick up
the toy you threw, finish your lunch …”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have lost all pretence of attempting to edit my language
at home. Yes, I’m sure that makes me a very poor role model for my children.
But so long as they’re able to understand what is acceptable language for mommy
and what is not acceptable for them, my children are learning self-regulation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although, perhaps I too need a lesson in self-regulation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other day, after another episode of “Quinn, goddammit,
can you please ___”, my little precocious tot stated “That’s my middle name!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s your name?” I asked absently while tending to his
latest misadventure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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“Goddammit!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-77961754314111458912017-11-13T17:56:00.001-08:002017-11-13T17:56:57.001-08:00Only hugs at SchoolHow can it be? Quinn is in grade one.<br />
With that comes the new rules for Mommy. No more kisses at drop off.<br />
I am allowed hugs only.<br />
Today, he gave me a kiss. But not anywhere near the school.<br />
Once on school property, I was reminded it would be a hug only.<br />
I must have looked sad.<br />
He stated, "Ok, maybe a kiss on the cheek. But that's it."<br />
<br />
That's okay. After school, it's kisses galore, and hugs a plenty. And there's still great fights at bedtime over who gets to sleep with Mommy.<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-45085638468833448532017-11-13T17:52:00.002-08:002017-11-13T17:52:46.907-08:00Never Underestimate CeilidhAt the beginning of the school year, Ceilidh was excited to have a certain teacher. It seemed, in a few short days, the two of them had bonded over their mutual love of reading. Fast forward a few weeks, and Ceilidh came home, glum and upset over the news she was being moved to another class over re-organization of the classes. While she was heartened by the fact she would remain with two of her best buds, the new teacher was an unknown and she wasn't sure what to expect.<br />
As a parent, I gave her the talk about doing the best in whatever situation we find ourselves in, and that life isn't always easy. The old, make lemonade when you're handed lemons lecture.<br />
The first day with the new teacher didn't go well. Ceilidh mentioned being reprimanded over how she handled a task. Having listened to Ceilidh's recitation of the facts, I felt maybe the teacher had overreacted but suggested to Ceilidh that she should have apologized. Over the next few days, I noticed Ceilidh's school agenda remained blank, and her details about the day's events were slim. Her enthusiasm for class began to wane. The only time she showed any interest was when the decision was announced to establish a student council. With a bit of urging and encouragement, Ceilidh decided to throw her hat into the race for the student council prime minister.<br />
Even though she was running against one of her best friends, she showed no animosity. In fact, she and her opponent got together one afternoon to brainstorm ideas for campaign posters. They vowed to remain BFFs no matter what. Ultimately, Ceilidh was unsuccessful in her run as prime minister and was chosen as a call rep instead. Her best friend was elected as prime minister and the honest heartfelt excitement Ceilidh displayed for her best bud was humbling to me as a parent. World leaders could learn a thing or two from the maturity my 11 year old daughter!<br />
Once the excitement of the elections wore off, Ceilidh returned to her ho-hum attitude about school. This was most unusual from my model student child. We soon learned the why.<br />
Last week, a most distressing message was left on our voice mail. Her teacher insisted on an urgent meeting to discuss Ceilidh. That was all. No further details. Upon being questioned after school, Ceilidh relayed a tale where she was singled out and yelled at by the teacher for not completing a voluntary assignment, and for berated for making up an excuse about not being able to retrieve the document from cyberspace. Furthermore, she was told there was a "reason" for Ceilidh's transfer into this teacher's class and it was now clear as to what that was. However, she didn't enlighten Ceilidh on that reason, but announced to the entire class that she had called Ceilidh's parents and was expecting a phone call in return. And, she also sent a message to Ceilidh at recess through her little sister Aisling. The message being "Your teacher is unhappy with you."<br />
Now, I'm not the parent to simply believe every word my child states. Frankly speaking, I know children exaggerate and my kids are especially good at overstating a situation. However, I received a call from another parent that evening, repeating what Ceilidh had earlier stated. This parent further advised me this berating of students was not an unusual occurrence, and the fact that Ceilidh, a model student, was now being targeted, was concerning.<br />
Armed with that tidbit, I didn't hesitate in calling the principal the next day. Whatever this teacher had advised the principal, I pointed out Ceilidh's mature reaction to the student council election results to refute the incorrect assumptions this teacher had made. Given the conflicting stories, it was decided a meeting with all the parties needed to be held. I insisted on a meeting in short order given Ceilidh's reluctance to now attend school and the tears that ensued in the mornings.<br />
Ceilidh was upset to learn she was to be included in this meeting. Given her reaction, I was suspicious that perhaps Ceilidh hadn't been quite truthful with us, and maybe this teacher was in the right. Nonetheless, I instructed Ceilidh to write down what she wanted to say to her teacher, including her list of complaints and how being the subject of the teacher's wrath made her feel.<br />
I'm sure this teacher felt this meeting was going to be her opportunity to showcase all of Ceilidh's faults, and to extol the advantages of her teaching methods. This teacher's platform was critical thinking, and apparently, her method was forced group work in order for all the minds to expand. But without saying so, it was also clear she marked each student on a floating scale. Without a standard for which all students were held to, each student had their own "gold standard" they were to achieve. That standard depended on each student's particular abilities. So while Ceilidh would put in the same amount of work as another, she would receive a lower mark because she was capable of more in this teacher's eyes. While the desire to do better for the mere satisfaction of challenging oneself is great, it's a bit much to expect 11 year olds to attain this lofty goal.<br />
After listening to this teacher critique Ceilidh, we deftly turned the floor over to Ceilidh. She was clearly nervous. But she held her own. First, she asked if she could respond to the teacher's accusations of 5 incidents of "misbehaviour". Ceilidh then provided her own recounting of the events with much greater detail and clarity, which prompted this teacher to interject with an explanation or excuse. She didn't have much to say when she was corrected on the names of those involved. Ceilidh continued on. She listed the teacher's shortcomings, including not listening to the students and not allowing them to explain without being cut off. She described how scared she felt when she was yelled at in front of the entire class. And when this teacher had the audacity to suggest Ceilidh was misinterpreting certain comments, Ceilidh challenged her and asked her point blank, "Do you think I'm lying?"<br />
Ceilidh asked her what was the reason for being placed in her class? Watching this teacher struggle to answer was something I wish I could recorded. It was clear that comment was made without thinking, for she had nothing.<br />
Bravo Ceilidh!<br />
The teacher sputtered and deflected, denied and made all sorts of excuses. Her inability to have an insight into her own behaviours displayed her gross lack of maturity - both as an educator and as an adult. Her inability to be flexible in her teaching methods and being unprepared for a meeting with the parents also showed her own high opinion of herself. She addressed me incorrectly, and when I pointed out my name was clearly stated on the student records, she was silenced, momentarily. If this teacher had taken the time to review Ceilidh's school records and past report cards, it would have been clear that Ceilidh's strengths were leadership and independence, not forced collaboration.<br />
Ultimately, we were successful in having Ceilidh moved to another teacher. After all, our goal was to ensure our child had a supportive environment in which to learn. To restore her enthusiasm for education and going to school. While all the right things were stated about the importance of trust and respect between a teacher and a student in moving Ceilidh I hope it was made clear to this principal that this staff member is not cut out to educate young impressionable beings.<br />
Mostly, I am proud to have a daughter who was not afraid to speak up for her classmates who are also berated by this "role model". A child who looked her teacher in the eye and stated the incident where she was singled out was the last straw. She didn't back down when the teacher accused Ceilidh of lying, but instead calmly explained her side of the story in a composed manner.<br />
Bravo Ceilidh!<br />
P.S. Apparently, this teacher spent the rest of the day glaring at Ceilidh. Doesn't that speak volumes?Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-50976350875414854602016-11-26T09:52:00.000-08:002016-11-26T09:52:26.027-08:00Minding our MannersTrick or treating this year with Quinn, I felt like I was constantly reminding him to say "Thank you" after the brightly wrapped candy bar was dropped into his loot bag. I get it - it's exciting, and he's more interested in the treats than being polite.<br />
It's always shocking to me and Daddy when the teachers are describing our progeny as polite, well behaved, cooperative and helpful in the classroom. I often wonder if they've mixed up our kids with someone else's. Their aunt and uncle who regularly host them for sleep overs also report nothing but the best behaviours from them. Which again, I find shocking because there isn't a single night without an issue at bedtime.<br />
One afternoon, I dropped off Aisling for her first sleep-over party. As she was taking her jacket off, I issued a litany of reminders and ended with "Mind your manners! Please and thank yous!"<br />
She responded with, "We're always polite at other people's homes. It's just at home, we're not."<br />
All the parenting books I've read suggest that we must be doing an okay job in raising our kids if they are well behaved in public and for others. The children know what is expected of them, but at home, they feel comfortable in the unconditional love of their parents, so they feel "safe" in acting out, and testing the limits of bad behaviour. Or testing the limits of their parents' patience with their shenanigans.<br />
And yet, sometimes they do remember to use their manners.<br />
The other night, Daddy went to give Quinn his usual good night kiss - a slobbery "doggie" kiss.<br />
Quinn buried his head under the pillows and said "No thank you Daddy. I don't want a kiss!"<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-36477202329320834292016-11-26T09:38:00.002-08:002016-11-26T09:38:25.889-08:00Young Love - So Short Lived...It snowed for the first time a few nights ago. The snow didn't last for more than a few hours, but it was enough to get all the kids excited about the upcoming winter season. Plans for skiing and sledding flew around, and there was a panicked search for matching mitts and hats.<br />
Quinn, seeing the falling flakes was full of instructions for me.<br />
"Mommy, look! Snow! It's time to get ready for Christmas!" he announced, though it sounded like "Kissmuss twee" coming from him.<br />
"Yes, it's snowing...what do we need to do?" I asked.<br />
"You have to put up the Christmas tree, and put on ornaments, and lights, and go shopping, and make cookies," he directed.<br />
"And after Christmas, do you know what comes next?" I asked in a whisper.<br />
"What???"<br />
"It's Quinn's birthday!" I announced to my New Year's Eve baby.<br />
"Yay! I'm going to have a party! I'm going to invite all my friends - Tristan, Max, Tristan's brother, Dylan, Lia, and my girlfriend," he said excitedly.<br />
I did a double take.<br />
"Um, pardon me? Your girlfriend?"<br />
Very matter of factly, he stated, "Yeah, my girlfriend, Elissa."<br />
<br />
The next day, wanting to know if there was a difference between his friendship with Lia and his relationship with Elissa, I asked him about his "girlfriend".<br />
"Quinn, how come Lia is just a friend and Elissa is a girlfriend?"<br />
"She's not my girlfriend!" he said forcefully.<br />
"But yesterday, you said Elissa was your girlfriend," I reminded.<br />
"She told me to shut up today. So she's not my girlfriend anymore."<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-48861862268023268922016-10-06T07:29:00.002-07:002016-10-06T07:29:18.847-07:00Pre-tween CeilidhIt seems like only yesterday that I had a little girl with unruly hair, chubby cheeks and twinkling eyes who would dance for a potato chip. Now, I've got a pre-tween daughter who is almost as tall as me, who is spending hours curling her hair and putting together outfits, and constantly on You Tube. Her friends are calling on the phone, and she's asking me to buy her shoes with heels! A cookie or juice from Starbucks is no good enough. Now, she's ordering a cotton candy frappuccino with whipped cream. It's not even on the menu board."It's on the secret menu, Mom. Everyone knows that!" she states while rolling her eyes. Clearly, I am not cool enough to know that.<br />
I am not ready to be a mother to a teenager. My oldest child who is only a year from that has not given me any cause for concern, yet.<br />
But all of a sudden, I find myself shopping for training bras, at the request of pre-tween, and I am in shock. What happened to my little girl who liked frilly dresses and Barbie dolls? Where is the toddler who would dance, in a diaper, to ACDC's You Shook Me All Night Long with the innocence that only a child can? Who took away the child whose eyes grew to the size of saucers when a tub of Cool Whip and a spoon were placed in front of her? (It was easier than constantly scooping a dollop, that kept disappearing, onto her tiny slice of pie.)<br />
Ceilidh was my easy child. The one who actually slept 6 hours a night when she was 8 weeks old. She was difficult to potty train but night time training was not an issue. She did not want to poop in the toilet, and I remember watching her like a hawk all day. Of course, the minute my attention was diverted by a wailing infant or I had to answer the phone, she'd scurry to a corner and poop in her pull-up. When she was tired, she'd crawl up the stairs to bed or curl up on the couch and simply fall asleep. There were no big productions of fighting bed time.<br />
Unlike Devlin, I rarely had to cajole her to practise the piano. She doesn't need much prompting to do her homework, and she devours books at such a rate that I am Amazon's most loyal customer. Where she gained the flair for creativity, I don't quite know. Ceilidh can spend hours patiently and meticulously creating a school project.<br />
She's the more mature child, and generally speaking, the more responsible one. If I have to leave the house for short period of time, I ask her, not her older brother, to keep an eye on Quinn. She's still the tallest too.<br />
She dislikes competitive sports and anything that seems to require physical exertion, other than dance. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Ceilidh was the always the lazy one, who figured out a unqiue method of motoring about that was a semi crawl, semi scooch around on her bum. We called it the crab crawl. She disliked mini golf because it made her sweaty. Soccer games were about picking flowers and twirling around the goal post. There wasn't much interest in chasing after the ball, which frustrated her daddy to no end. Especially given her long legs and the ability to run fast, if she truly tried. While the other three play hockey, Ceilidh is not interested. It's boring. And cold. Her progress in Tae Kwon Do has come to a halt because she refuses to spar. <br />
I've enrolled her in Korean language lessons as she's got an aptitude for learning. It's also part of her cultural heritage. I'm hoping her initial frustrations at not understanding the teacher will ease and she'll learn to ignore the annoying boys in her class.<br />
Over the past year, we've noticed some changes in her attitude that we haven't liked. Sometimes we wonder if it's the influence of her friends. Her dismissive and impatient attitude with her younger sister irks me. As an oldest sibling, I so understand that younger sisters can be annoying. But Aisling idolizes her older sister and brother. She wants to be a great skater like Devlin on the ice and she wants to dance like Ceilidh. Now she wants to take singing lessons too, just like her older sister.<br />
Sometimes I wonder if because she was the easy child, and didn't need as much discipline, that Ceilidh thinks she can get away with pretty much anything. I can tell you that is certainly not the case.<br />
A few weeks ago, Devlin was too ill for school. Ceilidh decided that she wasn't going to school either. Not because she had nothing to wear. Not because she was ill. Not because she wasn't getting along with her BFF. Ceilidh was refusing to get dressed for school because she didn't like the snack Daddy put in her lunch! To top it all off, Quinn decided he wasn't going to school either, if his big sister wasn't going. Of course, she went to school, but her stunt caused her to be late, and she lost her allowance.<br />
If her silent glares, stomping feet and slumped shoulders are a sign of the times to come, then I've decided that I am moving out. She's only 10 now, but I've heard this is nothing compared to the true hormonal rages that are soon to occur.<br />
I still see my little baby girl every once in a while. Ceilidh is the one child child who craves bear hugs and needs to be cuddled. Her eyes still light up when a bag of chips is opened. She still bites her nails. When she's feeling ill, she sobs. And when she's happy and excited, she still hops around while clapping her hands.<br />
I'm not prepared for teenaged angst. But I suspect my little baby girl is more than ready to embrace it.<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-27007849856180840622016-09-09T14:53:00.001-07:002016-09-09T14:53:16.596-07:00Middle school childAs I walked away from a crying Quinn this morning at school, I reflected on the quite opposite reaction I received from my first born an hour earlier. <div>
Devlin is now in middle school (when and how did that happen? Wasn't it just yesterday that he was learning to ride a bike and crying his heart out at the kindergarten gate??). Middle school which means new teachers, new classmates and a new school much further away. All week, he's woken up at 6:30 and hit the showers. He's left the house before 7:25am to walk to school. I've been impressed. Today, on my last day of vacation, I offered to walk with him halfway before finishing my morning jog. Even before we were halfway, my firstborn told me he was fine, and I could run home. I offered to walk a bit further. He declined. I insisted on going another block, only so that I could catch the trail home. He reluctantly agreed. I swear he slouched a bit more and pulled his hat down over his eyes.</div>
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The sidewalks were deserted.</div>
<div>
"What's wrong? Are you ashamed of me? Do I embarrass you? Am I cramping your style? I mercilessly queried.</div>
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"Stop mom...it's just that, you're a small person, and it looks like I'm walking with a girl..." came the muttered reply.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This, from my first born who is still smaller in stature to his younger sister.</div>
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And no, there were no fond hugs and kisses for his mom when we finally parted ways. I think I laughed the entire way home.</div>
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<br /></div>
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At least my daughters are still happy to be seen with me in public.</div>
Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-68846496040803148062016-09-09T06:32:00.001-07:002016-09-09T06:32:08.274-07:00Another school year begins...Yesterday I felt a lump in my throat and tears gathering as I walked away from dropping off Quinn at the kindergarten gate. Was it only a year ago that I had to peel his arms off my legs and hand over the sobbing tot to the kindergarten teachers? Was it only a year ago that I had to walk away from his heart wrenching pleas to not leave him behind?<br />
Now, he was walking confidently to his spot in line and waving me a cheery good bye.<br />
Another milestone reached. Over the summer, he's learned to swim a little, managed to start wiping his own bum after being bribed with a new lego set, and no longer wets the bed at night.<br />
He's been looking forward to hockey season all summer. Soccer, we learned from many tortourous sessions, is NOT his thing.<br />
He carries around a notebook and laboriously prints his name whenever he can, and his drawings of his family are beginning to look more like people, and less like alien stick creatures.<br />
And so, I felt a tad emotional realizing that my baby was growing up. I saw other families with new additions in strollers and felt the tiniest bit sad, knowing that part of my life has truly ended.<br />
<br />
And then, this morning, I felt exasperated as I walked Quinn to school. He clung to my leg, crying about his legs being tired and begging to be carried. Then he switched to wanting to stay at home.<br />
At the kindergarten gate, much to the amusement of the other parents, I dragged a sobbing tot to the line. And peeled his arms off of me, several times as he buried his face against my back. As he cried, I handed him off unceremoniously to his teachers and walked away, my heartbreaking a little.<br />
<br />
And so, it goes...Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-12984697118208857792016-05-09T17:05:00.001-07:002016-05-09T17:05:40.160-07:00The Red SquareWhen Quinn started junior kindergarten this past September at the tender age of 3 and half years, I admit I was nervous. I was worried that the day would be too long, his classmates and teachers wouldn't understand (his missing front teeth and all), he wouldn't understand the concepts being taught, and out of frustration, he would act out, hit, scream and behave badly.<br />
When the first week, and then the first month went by without a call from the teachers, we breathed a small sigh of relief. The teachers seemed to understand he was very very young, and whenever his kindergarten teacher saw me, she had nothing negative to report. Still, I wondered about his behaviour in the classroom, because, well, because I know my kid.<br />
Academically, Quinn seems to be growing in leaps and bounds. He can write his own name, and is starting to figure out slowly which letters make what sound. He counts well, especially if he's expecting a certain number of treats. He knows his left and right much better than his older siblings. He's always excited to read books and will have memorized the story within a short period of time.<br />
Still, we wondered about his behaviour because he can be an absolute brat at home, and will hit or kick or scream when he doesn't get his way.<br />
But the report cards made no mention of any unacceptable behaviour in the classroom.<br />
On the weekend, Quinn was acting out. He received a number of warnings, and was about to placed on the time out stool.<br />
Daddy asked, "Do you do this at school? How many times do you get send to the time out corner?"<br />
Quinn replied, "We don't have a time out. We have to sit on the red square!"<br />
Daddy and I looked at each other. Red Square? This was the first time we had ever heard of this!<br />
"Really? Red square? How many times do you have sit on that?" we asked.<br />
"A lot!" he answered unabashedly.<br />
"What?! Who else sits on the red square?"<br />
He named off almost of his friends.<br />
We were aghast! Here we were thinking our youngest was an angel in class! Well, no, not really. We had acknowledged to ourselves he was probably a sh-- in class, but the teachers were handling it and we hadn't received any calls at home, yet. Unlike Devlin, whom we received calls from the vice principal during his first week of junior kindergarten, and didn't find out until recently that he had thrown his shoe at the teacher! But, we hadn't asked Quinn's teachers, because, why rock the boat? No news is good news, right?<br />
Daddy went to the school today and inquired about Quinn and the red square.Turns out, he hardly ever earns a turn on the red square. His cronies, however, are regulars.Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-893922583883199732016-05-09T16:51:00.001-07:002016-05-09T16:52:08.240-07:00Mother's Day 2016A few weeks ago, we were having yet another dispute over homework and getting assignments completed in time. We as in daddy and I versus Devlin. We were getting fed up with his sloppy writing, and his last minute rush efforts to complete typing his projects. On night, Devlin asked me for a family recipe, out of the blue. I blew up at him. Here again, was another example of a last minute attempt to complete a homework assignment. As well, I was probably under pressure from the amount of work I had brought home from the office.<br />
"What kind of recipe?" I snapped at my first born.<br />
"I don't know...something that's about our family...something good," he mumbled.<br />
I was exasperated. I had to review a trial file and prepare the next day's meal, while overseeing laundry or pulling Quinn off my leg.<br />
"Well, we cook lots of foods, so give me a hint" I yelled. "Main course? Appetizer? Salad? Dessert?"<br />
Devlin decided after much hemming and hawing that he wanted the recipe for the oreo brownies, aka better than heaven brownies, which is a lovely, chocolately combination of chocolate chip cookie, oreos and brownies.<br />
I admit I was really pissed at my first born at this point. I gave him a very easy short cut recipe, and I probably was yelling out the instructions, while making observations about his lack of work ethic when it came to school.<br />
Then I forgot about that incident. Because, in a family of four kids, there was another crisis to deal with, like holey socks, or the lack of apples for lunch.<br />
It was Mother's day yesterday. I was awakened by a cuddly 4 year old who thought it was great fun to eat all the strawberries and whipped cream that was my "breakfast in bed". And command his sisters to bring more.<br />
I also received several handmade crafts with messages proclaiming their love for me. Quinn had a planted flower, slightly crushed, and card stating his mother's vital stats. According to him, I am 5 years old, my favorite colour is blue, I love to play with toys and I do read him stories.<br />
Devlin presented me with a cookbook. An international cookbook. It was a collection of recipes from all of the students in the class who contributed family favorite recipes, reflecting their cultural and ethnic backgrounds. There was a recipe for Jolloff rice from Ghana, Ackee and saltfish and fired plantains from Jamaica, chicken palao and butter chicken from India, stuffed peppers from Serbia, perogies from the Ukraine. There were lots of southeast Asian recipes. There were some unexpected recipes like moussaka from Serbia, chicken pot pie made with Stove top stuffing from Ireland, something called lamb on a stick from Ireland.<br />
And the last page was my son's contribution. "Magic" Brownies. And, the only Canadian contribution.<br />
There were pictures accompanying the recipes. Thank gawd there was only a photo a chocolate brownie, and not something leafy green!Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-3818870696055041262016-03-16T20:32:00.001-07:002016-03-16T20:32:44.104-07:00It's hard to argue with a 7 year old!I had a late frisbee game tonight. Usually that means Daddy is on solo parenting duty, but tonight, Daddy and Devlin were having a boys' night out, watching a the Habs game in Buffalo.<div>
The girls and Quinn were quite upset at the thought of Mommy leaving for an hour. I explained they'd have their nanny taking care of them, and it would be late, so they'd be asleep at any rate.</div>
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"Why do we need a babysitter then, if we're going to sleeping?"</div>
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"What do you mean? I can't leave you alone at home at night," I stated.</div>
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"Well, if we're sleeping, then there's nothing for the babysitter to do," Aisling explained. "It's not like you watch us when we're sleeping either. You sleep too!"</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Well, I guess I couldn't really argue with that logic. Except I pointed out if something was to happen while they were sleeping, and I wasn't home, then our nanny could help them or take care of the issue. Similarly, when I am home, albeit sleeping at night, I am there for them to awaken if the need should arise. Like when she threw up in bed last week. </div>
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Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-3791050910687371532016-01-10T10:33:00.001-08:002016-01-10T10:33:03.923-08:00Teaching Devlin Responsibilities (aka delegation)This year, after much pleading, we decided to give our kids allowances. However, we also instituted a penalty or fine system. There's a list of chores each kid has - suitable to their age level - that must be completed to earn their allowance. However, misbehaviours result in fines, starting at $0.25. For instance, talking back is $0.25 and so is a missed chore. Fighting with a sibling is $0.50. And going over the half hour allotted free screen time (not related to school task) is $0.50 per 15 minute time period. It works out well for us - we have yet to pay out a full week's allowance.<br />
Since he's the oldest, Devlin has the longest list of chores. He's also has the responsibility of keeping an eye on Quinn. Sometimes, both he and Ceilidh are given the task of babysitting Quinn for short periods of time, (no more than an hour) while both mommy and daddy are out running errands or at a hockey game.<br />
A few weeks ago, we gave Devlin the task of bathing Quinn. It was still early in the evening but Quinn was insisting on a bath, and both Daddy and I were exhausted and hungry. We had just sit down to eat. The kids had already eaten. And Quinn didn't want to wait 10 more minutes.<br />
I could hear Devlin in the bathroom, having his bath. I told Quinn to go up and get in the bath. He happily complied.<br />
I shouted up to Devlin to bathe Quinn. I figured he heard me. But when Devlin showed up two minutes later, freshly bathed and in his pyjamas, I realized he hadn't.<br />
"Go and bathe Quinn," I instructed.<br />
Up the stairs he went. Two minutes later he came down.<br />
"Where's Quinn?" I asked.<br />
"In the bathtub," was the answer.<br />
"Did you wash his hair?"<br />
"Yes."<br />
"Why didn't you take him out of the tub?"<br />
"Cuz he didn't want to come out," my eldest replied just as we heard the pitter patter of a small child getting out of the tub and coming down the stairs.<br />
"Go and dry him off," I instructed. "Lotion, and pjs too."<br />
Ninety seconds later, Devlin returned.<br />
"Did you put pjs on him?"<br />
He had forgotten. Back up the stairs he went.<br />
Two minutes later, he was back. Trailing along was Quinn. With damp hair and clad in pyjamas.<br />
M: Did Devlin give you a bath?<br />
Q: Yup.<br />
M: Did Devlin wash your hair?<br />
Q: Yup.<br />
M: Did he dry you and put lotion on?<br />
Q: Yup.<br />
M: Got underwear on?<br />Q: Let me check.<br />
He peeled off his pants, to reveal no underwear, and announced "Nope!"<br />
<br />
After all that, and a trip upstairs to get the missing underwear, I had to wonder if I had gained anything in my attempt to delegate a simple chore.<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-29224466484534837262016-01-10T10:10:00.002-08:002016-01-10T10:10:50.718-08:00New Year's Resolutions<br />
I am the first to admit I have a potty mouth. It's a miracle that my kids haven't picked up my vice. Well, three of the kids. Quinn has decided to try out a few, but he's learning that it's only okay for mommy to use such words.<div>
This year, Ceilidh is in a split grade 4-5 class, and the older boys are not to her liking. She has labelled them as trouble makers who cause many disruptions to the classroom. Furthermore, she has made it clear that she doesn't believe the teaching staff is effective at reigning in the behaviour of some of the boys. One of her main complaints is the inappropriate language the boys use.</div>
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So I had to ask, "Well, what do you consider inappropriate?"</div>
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C: Just bad words.</div>
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M: Are they words you've heard before?</div>
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C: What do you mean?</div>
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M: Are they words you've heard from Mommy before?</div>
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C: Yes.</div>
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M: Then just ignore it. Like you do at home.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Then, my wise daughter had a brilliant idea.</div>
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C: Mommy, I think your new year's resolution should be to swear less. </div>
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M: Excellent idea. But I need your help.</div>
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C: What do you mean?<br />M: When do you hear me use those words? All the time? When I'm happy?</div>
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C: No. When we're bad, or you're mad at us or Daddy.</div>
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M: So, if you guys behave better, then I won't get upset and I won't use "inappropriate" language. So your new year's resolution should be to behave, and do things when Mommy asks!</div>
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<br /></div>
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She didn't look thrilled at that suggestion.</div>
Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-84135011258269072472016-01-10T09:51:00.001-08:002016-01-10T09:59:49.590-08:00The end of childhood??A few weeks ago, Ceilidh and I had the evening to ourselves. We did what most females would do - we went shopping. Okay, it wasn't for anything exciting. It was my weekly trip to Costco. But Ceilidh was simply happy to have some "alone" time with Mommy.<br />
We shopped. We chatted. About school, the upcoming holidays, what Santa would bring, and then conversation became serious. She brought up the topic of ...wait for it...PUBERTY!<br />
Ceilidh thought it was gross because she heard that one sweats more and might get more hair with the onset of puberty. But more worrisome, she heard that it would hurt.<br />
Since I was already in shock about the topic itself, I didn't delve into where she "heard" all of this. I knew the school hadn't started the new sex-ed curriculum so I was pretty sure it was coming from the schoolyard.<br />
I explained, without going into specifics, that the onset of puberty was painless. Furthermore, it's supposed to be a good thing because it means maturation. That apparently, was the cause of Ceilidh's concern.<br />
C: But I don't want to go through puberty. It means it's the end of our childhood, and I don't want that to end! That's sooo sad!<br />
M: Ceilidh, puberty is about maturing physically and biologically. You can always keep the emotional aspects of childhood, and never let it go.<br />
She thought about that statement, and realized I was right. (Is mommy every wrong?!)<br />
C: That's true - Daddy is a big kid. And so is Uncle Billy and Uncle Dan. Especially Uncle Dan! Do you know he and his friends like Kraft Dinner? I mean, only kids like that stuff.<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-7429758840211072892016-01-09T12:18:00.000-08:002016-01-10T09:48:15.534-08:00Body HugsFull contact body hugs are the best from a little warm child. I get snuggles from Aisling who likes to bury her face against me. Ceilidh loves hugs. Devlin will cuddle up still, but only in the privacy of our home. I don't even get a props or a wave when I walk him to school. It is not cool - I get it.<br />
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And Quinn? It's the full on, coming right at ya at top speed body hugs. I love those!</div>
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I know it's only a matter of time before he won't be proudly pointing to me at the school yard and telling his classmates "That my mom!"</div>
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I know the days are limited where he'll demand to be picked up and carried. Yes he still does that once in awhile. He can curl up in your arms and snuggle his face against your neck and all is good in the world. And yes, I love that feeling so I am suckered into carrying him to school, on the very infrequent opportunities I have to walk the kids to school. It's an extra workout - a half kilometer trek with a thirty-something pounds of a wiggling and giggling little boy.<br />
There have been many changes with Quinn is the past four months. He's started school and we have to yet to receive a phone call home about any misbehaving. He can identify his name and is making valiant attempts at spelling it too. Quinn's vocabulary and pronunciation had grown by leaps and bounds. There was a moment of concern when he was assessed by the speech therapist at school. But once his age, lack of two front teeth, and a foreign born nanny were factored in, it was determined he was right on target with his speech development.<br />
And still, after baths, he's still the same little monkey who loves to run into mommy's bed, naked, and hide under the covers, waiting for Mommy to come look for him. The tiny bump under the covers could be a pillow, but for the wriggling from all the giggles he's trying to suppress. Once you find him, there's a wrestling match to get lotion on him and pyjamas on, all punctutated by slobbery kisses and hugs.<br />
We also decided to start Quinn in hockey this year. Yes he's the youngest and the littlest kid out there. And yes, he couldn't stand without falling at first. But I had decided my back couldn't handle another season of being bent over and holding onto a child who wanted to spend the entire session crying. It's been two months, but he's moving across the ice, and staying upright. I love watching him come off the ice after a practice or game, with his entire face lit up by the toothless grin.<br />
In the change room, once I get his jersey and skates off, Quinn is able to undress himself. He's quite adept at undoing the velcro straps on the various pads and throwing with unerring aim into the hockey bag. Surprisngly, he also knows his left and right which makes getting him dressed so much easier. If only he'd agree to go to the bathroom BEFORE getting on the ice. Putting a kid on the toilet, in full hockey gear, when the kid is small and the gear is huge means Mommy has to provide extra assistance in holding steady and aim! Not amusing.<br />
But I digress...this blog is about body hugs, and the best body hugs are after hockey. After the gear is stripped off, and while I'm trying to get this kid dressed, he will launch himself into my arms because he's so happy and plant a big kiss. Sometimes, he'll lick my face too.<br />
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Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-16282424697535335992015-12-02T20:00:00.002-08:002015-12-02T20:01:10.553-08:00Being old is a relative thingSome say you're only as old as you feel. Or is it you're only as old as you look? After all, age is just a number. It's all about your attitude and perspective on being mature.<br />
Yeah, whatever.<br />
As the years drag on, and my children get taller and older and sassier, I'm learning that being old is a relative thing.That is, it's my relatives that make me old, both in body and spirit.<br />
Is grey hair hereditary? Of course it is. It's caused by the off-spring and their antics.<br />
Ceilidh announced today she finally met someone whose mom is older than her mom! A classmate's mom is 48!<br />
And then there's Devlin, who asked if it's possible to have a baby at age 15?<br />
I cautiously answered that, yes it's biologically and physically possible but certainly not advisable. Why, I wondered aloud, would he ask this?<br />
It turns out he doubted that his classmate's parents could only be 26 years old!<br />
I think another hair turned grey when I realized I am old enough to be the parent of a classmate's parent, if I had been a precocious child.<br />
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Then there's Aisling who doubted her mom would own a pair of Chucks (Converse sneakers for you old folks).<br />
"Are those your shoes?" she asked doubtfully. "Cuz they look like something Auntie Grace would wear."<br />
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Yes, Auntie Grace is the cool and hip aunt, and in her eyes, the fashion icon to follow. Clearly, her own mother is nowhere near that cool.<br />
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But alas, I've regained a bit in the "hip" category. Ceilidh saw me wearing an old motorcycle-style black jacket, and declared me "cool".<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-88142321526473780952015-09-29T11:29:00.001-07:002015-09-29T11:29:46.668-07:00Hug your ChildInstead of celebrating her tenth wedding anniversary this week, there is a mother in Ontario who will be preparing to say a final goodbye and bury her three children and father. Because of the actions of a unthinking individual who probably thought he was invincible or something.<div>
There are no words that could possibly describe what this mother and father are living through and feeling and thinking. There is nothing. They lost their entire family - 2 sons and a daughter - in an instant.</div>
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How does the human spirit ever recover from that?</div>
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How can life be so cruel?</div>
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Hug your child or children, cherish them, and say a prayer for the grieving parents who are living through everyone's worst nightmare.</div>
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Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-30929213109055105852015-09-29T11:23:00.000-07:002015-09-29T11:23:04.890-07:00Hockey Drama - part 2So, we learned late last week what team Devlin was assigned. It's a skill level below what he was playing at last year, but this coach is something else.<br />
He's demanding a commitment in both attitude and time from these kids. There will be calisthenics before the game, and yoga after games and practices. And an extra evening of practice. There will be a nutrition plan for the kids - mainly discouraging fast foods before and immediately a game, and recommending wholesome and nutritious food items. There is a ban on sports drinks, which is more than fine with me.<br />
The players are expected to have their gear ready to go on the night before a game or practice, and have all of their schoolwork and assignments completed before rink sessions. The team is expected to attend the games in white button down dress shirts and team ties, with their game jersey hanging smartly on clothes hanger instead of shoved haphazardly into the hockey bag with their smelly gear. There's also an off-season training program.<br />
Seems like a lot?<br />
I was a little skeptical too. But then I learned that several of Devlin's new teammates were invited to be part of the team Devlin that didn't make. And, these kids turned down the opportunity. They chose to remain with this coach and his philosophy. The returning players' parents also appear supportive of this coaching regime. The focus and emphasis is on learning the game, and developing each child's skill on the ice, while introducing a way of life. Devlin's commented that "it's like being in the NHL!"<br />
In the end, I hope Devlin develops his skills and has fun, and if it's easier to convince him to eat more veggies, then I'm all for it.<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-58486928626295187022015-09-25T11:12:00.004-07:002015-09-25T11:12:45.859-07:00Hockey DramaIt's fall, and it's time for our busy household to start up the seasonal chaos of hockey. With two kids in hockey, it's pretty much guaranteed that we will spend way more hours in a cold ice rink than we'd like. I love that commercial about the child asking his dad about the number of games they played, the number of hot chocolates purchased, the number of games they lost and won, and most importantly, the jersey number. That pretty sums up our life. And it'll get exponentially nuttier when Quinn signs up next year.<br />
But there's also the unexpected and crushing drama we've had this week.<br />
A few disclaimers, though:<br />
- our kids play at the house league level, not rep or travel<br />
- I have no desire to see them play at the rep level<br />
- I am not disillusioned by dreams of grandeur - I am quite realistic in my lack of expectations re: the scouts coming to our door<br />
- all we'd like is for our kids to develop a skill and love for Canada's game<br />
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For the past three years, Devlin has played with a particular team. He's made some great friends, and of course, his hockey skills have developed. In fact, we offered him the opportunity to try out for another team this summer (the rink is closer) and he declined, citing his desire to continue playing on a team with his friends. He missed a few weeks last year as a result of an injury, which in turn, caused him to more cautious on the ice. Not an overly aggressive player to begin with, this may or not have affected how he was evaluated by the team coach.<br />
(and here's my short rant: for a team that consistently lost EVERY game in the regular season, there was no logical reason for Devlin to be taken out during a power play on the off-chance their team could score, even when they were 5-0. Devlin challenged his coach on that decision and was told, the team needed a scoring chance. Whatever...)<br />
Every fall, the hockey league assesses the skills of the children who have signed up in order to slot the kids into the teams of the appropriate skill level. This year, Devlin failed to make the cut for the team he's played on for three years, with kids of comparable skills as his. The team with majority of his hockey friends.<br />
Then there was the issue that it appeared there were not enough children to form another team, as only 24 kids were assessed and of them, only one goalie.<br />
While we waited to officially hear of where Devlin would be assigned, his father looked into vacancies on other teams. And we debated on how to break the news to our child who was looking forward to another season of hockey with his friends. I wanted to wait until we had more information about the hockey season so we could answer his questions, but Devlin caught a glimpse of his dad looking at another team's website. And he knew the first game was scheduled for this weekend and was wondering about when we'd hear about the game's location.<br />
We sat him down last night. Prefaced with lots of reassurance of his hockey skills, we advised him he had not made the team. Devlin's face registered disappointment immediately. His face literally crumbled and he dissolved into tears. My heart broke.<br />
I cursed this stupid assessment routine, and I most definitely seethed inwardly about the politics which we know occur during the sorting of players. <br />
Early this morning, we received word about his new team. We pointed out some familiar names of other children he's played with in the past. He seemed okay with it, and I'm hoping he's managed to put behind his disappointment and look towards just enjoying being on the ice. The first practice is this weekend, and here's hoping he'll find himself enjoying the easy going camaraderie he had with his former teammates.<br />
But it still sucks...<br />
<br />Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2721927896679759386.post-69367265171491412122015-09-10T06:51:00.001-07:002015-09-10T06:51:30.781-07:00Day TwoI fear history is repeating itself. When Devlin started junior kindergarten (back when it was half days, but in reality 3 hours), he cried every day I dropped him off. For two and half months. The teachers placed a special "crying" chair for him in the hallway so he could have his tears without disrupting the class.<br />
Quinn did not want to re-attend school this morning.<br />
When I picked him up yesterday, he was eager to leave. He insisted on bringing his indoor shoes and extra clothes home with him, probably figuring he had tried this school gig and was so over it.<br />
The teachers indicated that after he had his massive meltdown - where he grabbed his backpack and was ready to leave - he ended up having a good day. Though there was the off-hand comment about his stubbornness.<br />
This morning, when I woke him up and stated "you have to get ready for school!", Quinn responded with a "I hate school" and burrowed under the pillows.<br />
Eventually the promise of a sugary breakfast cereal coaxed him out of bed.<br />
The bargaining of 10 minutes of television got him into his clothes for the day. Daddy tried to get him excited by letting him pick out what would go into his lunch. (He ate every crumb yesterday!)<br />
He refused to wear his backpack so Mommy got that job.<br />
His older brother Devlin challenged him to a series of races that got the entire crew to school in record time.<br />
Quinn seemed to be resigned to going to school this morning. Until we got to the gate. He saw another little boy in tears, and put the brakes on. His backpack was unceremoniously dumped on the ground and off he went in the other direction. Good thing I was outfitted for a run this morning. I got my warm up in my chasing him across the playground and dragged him back. While I tried to put his backpack onto his tiny shoulders, he took off again. This time, I carried him back, and dropped him inside he gated area.<br />
For some reason, the gate attendant wouldn't close the gate so the little rascal got away again. For the third time, I chased him and handed him off to the teacher, and without a backward glance, I walked away quickly.<br />
Do I sound cold hearted? It's my fourth child, and I've been down this road before. My loitering around the gate would have prolonged this torture and provided false hope to Quinn that I would give in and bring him home.<br />
But I peeked from around the corner, hidden by the building. The music blaring from my earphones drowned out his cries as I watched him stomping his feet and attempting to move around the teacher and to freedom. The teacher was doing quite the jig to block his way. Really? Close the gate!<br />
Then he gave up, and faced the wall and cried and cried. No amount of words would make him turn around. Finally, I watched the teacher just haul up his little body and carry him in.<br />
I am NOT looking forward to tomorrow's drop off.Frisbee Momhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02132279286602324901noreply@blogger.com0