Stir Crazy

There are many things to be said about spending four days with four boys under 8, almost all of them good. Granted, we’re all a little stir-crazy – temperatures have been in the -30 range until today when their parents come home. That’s Murphy’s Law. It’s also fortunate for a couple of the little guys who may have found themselves deposited in a snow drift, had I not had to worry about them freezing to death before they could get out.

Sometimes I shoot myself in the foot when it comes to making things work. For example, I’m sure the mom is expecting a big bag of laundry to do when she gets home. So, good grandma that I am, I do the laundry. Everything, that is, except 21 month’s blankie. It’s dragged around and chewed on and could use a twirl in the tub, but that means unattaching the boy. He’s a very serious little boy. One tug on the blanket and I get a look that warns, let’s not go there. Not a problem, sunshine. It’s all yours. While oldest boy, who is, because he is 7, the most helpful most of the time, is at Tai Kwon Do with his grandpa, the almost 2 year old, the 3 ½ year old and the 5 ½ year old can surely tell me which of the newly clean clothes belong to who so I can pack them in their respective suitcases. You can see there’s a flaw in this reasoning, right?

Me: “Who’s underwear is this?”

5 ½: “Ewwwww.”

3 ½ “Ewwwww.”

21 mo: “Ewwwwww.”

I try again. I hold up a pair of jeans, very small jeans. I ask 5 ½, “Who do these belong to?”

He says, “They used to be mine. They’re probably 7’s.”

3 ½ says, “They used to be mine too. Yeah, they’re 7s.”

It seems we’re going in the wrong direction here so I throw up my hands, toss them into 21 month’s suitcase and guess at the rest. At least the stuff is clean.

Speaking of clean, I also found it is very difficult to shower while the aforementioned boys are up and about. I am desperate, it’s lunchtime, and my better half is sitting at the table with the boys so I figure now is the time. I shower quickly, hoping to finish before lunch is over. When I am done, I push the button on the shower cleaning thingy – 15 seconds to exit before the spray starts. I open the shower door and there, standing on the bath mat, are 5 ½ (holding a Lego creation – when did he have time to do that?) and 21 months. I say “Go away. Shoo. Go to the living room,” and back into the shower. This little exchange takes exactly 15 seconds. Very cold bleachy stuff hits me in the back and I bolt out of the shower, step twice on pieces of Lego as two little boys scuttle down the hall and out of sight.

I did manage to cool down by the time I got rinsed, dried off and dressed. I do wonder what the better half was doing while this was going on. But that’s another blog.

My favourite movies...

Tonight I caught a few minutes of one of my favourites…Amadeus. I watched the sequence in which Mozart is introduced to the court and hears Saliari’s tribute for the first time, then, when challenged to play it from memory, not only plays it exquisitely but “fixes” it as he goes along. Much of the movie is sad and one realizes the challenge in living with such genius, but the superb portrayal of the character with his cocky nature, unforgettable laugh, and indomitable spirit makes the movie one I can happily watch over and over again.

There are several other movies that I’ll watch whenever I get the chance. Good Morning Viet Nam, Scent of a Woman, The Jazz Singer, Forrest Gump, Stand By Me, American Graffiti. Movies stick in one’s mind for the same reason a good book is not forgotten. It has to do with connections – the better job the work of art does in reflecting the feelings and emotions of the viewer/reader, the stronger the connection. We might not have first-hand knowledge of the time and place in history of Mozart, but we can all identify and cheer for the underdog; we try, through movies like Good Morning Viet Nam to understand our collective history; we all like to see good triumph over evil as in Scent of a Woman; we all identify with the human journey back to his roots in The Jazz Singer; and who wouldn’t pull for Forrest and, especially for those of us of a specific generation, identify with the contrived events in history visited by our hero? The coming of age stories in Stand By Me and American Graffiti also speak directly to people growing up in the 60s. It is said that if you remember the 60s you weren’t there, but movies placed in that time period bring on a wave of nostalgia.

And it isn’t just the plot or the characters. For me, in most cases, it’s the music – fantastic music woven throughout a journey down memory lane. There are, of course, other wonderful movies, ones that speak to memories, commonalities, unfulfilled dreams and heartbreaking sympathies. We recognize these aspects in ourselves and therefore embrace the character and the story. We each cherish our own favourites, depending on how they affect us.

We recorded Amadeus tonight. I can hardly wait to make popcorn, turn down the lights and enjoy the entire movie…yet again.

Cold feet

Cold feet keep you awake at night and make your toes ache. If your feet are cold, the rest of you is cold. Please note, cold feet is not a metaphor here - I don't mean cold feet in any way other than, well, cold feet. The reason I am thinking about cold feet is because, at the moment, my feet are cold. We've just come in - the short distance between warm car and warm house was enough to put a chill in my bones. And it started me wondering about hockey players, specifically those playing in the outdoor game this afternoon and the old guys who played yesterday in freezing temperatures. I don't wonder about hockey players often; I'm not embedded in the great Canadian obsession, but thinking about skating on outdoor ice took me back to skating when I was a kid.

The outdoor skating rink was large, well-kept and close to home. I spent a great deal of happy time during my growing up years, skating on outdoor ice to waltz music played over loud speakers, then warming up in the skate shack, sitting on the wooden bench next to the glowing wood stove. And sometimes I got cold feet, depending on how many pairs of socks were inside my skates which in turn was relative to how the skates fit. Was I wearing last year's skates (thin socks), this year's skates (heavy socks) or next year's skates (several pairs of socks)? Mostly, when my feet got cold, I had the good sense to go home.

Today skates worn by athletes, are made of light synthetic material and molded to the wearer's feet. Someone told me that they don't even wear socks. Wind chill yesterday and today was around -30 C. I couldn't help but think, not so much about the fans in the stands, but about the hockey players, bare feet laced into cold skates, out there in that cold. Their feet must have been like popsicles. Makes me shiver - going to put on socks now.

A Stitch in Time

Why don’t I ever use that quilt frame I bought, you ask. You know, the lovely wooden one that could pass as a piece of living room furniture (that was the sales pitch – really, how many people do you know with a quilting frame in their living room, or at least one that you might mistake for a coffee table?) I bought the frame almost a year ago, visions of quilts dancing in my head, but I’ve run into a few road blocks. Time – spare time to quilt – what is that anyway? I am far to busy writing, chasing grandkids, going for coffee, playing Paxon on the computer and wondering where the energy I had ten years ago went.

The other thing that keeps me from making a quilt worthy of a quilt frame that looks like a piece of living room furniture is, I still have three more rag quilts to make. These are the quilting equivalent of paint by number pictures, done completely on the sewing machine, no edges to finish, no quilting to stitch, but warm, comfortable, and ever so snuggly. They’ve become known in our family as love blankets – each grandchild has or will have one. So far, I’ve done one for me, seven for grandkids, and three queen-sized ones - after all, adults need love blankets too.

When my oldest grandson was two, I made his. His mom told him it was a very special blanket because grandma sewed love into each puffy little square. How sweet is that? However, with love added to the batting, this grandma can’t stop until each grandchild has one. The older girls got theirs as I finished them, the boys and little girls when they moved from their cribs into their big beds. I wouldn’t give up making the rag quilts for anything though. Just recently that same oldest grandson, now seven, told me that when he got married, his wife would have to bring her own blankets because he would have his love blanket and he wasn’t going to share it. No compliment on a hand-quilted project made on my furniture/frame would mean as much.

Down for the count...

I’m not sure if this is a blog or a rant, but it’s my space so bear with me. I was just reminded of why I abhor the way the phys. ed. program in schools is administered by a post and an exchange on Facebook. I’m thinking mostly of phys. ed. at the high school level because I’m not familiar with what goes on in the earlier grades first hand. I do know that getting through phys. ed., even the minimal credits it takes to graduate, for some kids is like being made to walk on hot coals every day for five months. The “losers”, the ones who do not excel, are bullied in the locker rooms, taunted in the gym and treated like second class citizens, even if they’re smarter, more artistic, more musically talented or just plain nice kids.

Team sports, competition, winning and losing – all important lessons to learn and for the kids who are equipped mentally and physically for the challenge of team sports and who have been blessed with a strong competitive spirit, phys ed is good exercise, good learning and good fun. But what about the kids who don’t excel? I don’t mean that kids who don’t want to take part in physical activity should be excused but I worry about the way the programs are run. By nature, some kids are more coordinated than others and in case no one notices, the kids who come in last, who hold the “team” back, who never hit the basket, or who don’t look hot in shorts – well they just are not having fun. Not having fun is supposed to encourage life long physical activity? I don’t think so.

There are many leisure activities that encourage fitness and good health and encourage the kids to use their own accomplishments as yardsticks, their own successes as challenges to beat – why is it important for the weak to compete with the natural athletes when the outcome is predestined. As adults, most people don’t play basketball, football, volleyball, or participate in track and field, but many do run marathons, swim, ride bicycles or horses, climb, golf, hike – there are endless possibilities. And many more don’t participate at all because participation, to them, is synonymous with the physical education classes they took in school. They were not fun.

I know anyone who is involved in team sports and enjoys the experience will disagree and say that losing is a lesson too, that the kids will shape up eventually and being part of a team is great preparation for real life. For most kids, that may be true. However, the spirit is a tender thing and can only be beaten down so many times before it forgets how to get up again. For some kids, the consequences last a lifetime.

Bloom Where You're Planted

Okay, here goes. A blog – something more on the plate – just what I need. I am a master of procrastination and blogging is another way of not writing, not doing housework, not doing the million things waiting to be done. I am buried under a huge pile of commitments. It’s a burden of my own making but sometimes it’s hard to see the way out from under it. I am hopeless at prioritizing. Perhaps by writing my thoughts down once in a while, the words will bring some balance to my busy and disorganized world. Around and around I go, chasing my tail, but knowing full well that if I caught it, I’d either seize up or fall over. Don’t want that to happen so I’ll just keep chasin’…

I just finished reading my daughter’s blog about being afraid of the unknown. How can I reassure her and make her feel better? After all, that’s a mother’s job, right? I wonder if my optimistic nature is the way things should be, or if her more pessimistic outlook is realistic. The truth is probably somewhere in between. I do know that the worst thing that can happen is not as bad as the unknown because once something happens, it has to be dealt with. You move forward. Life goes on.

I also know that this is no comfort to someone dealing with a beautiful child whose future is unsure. Not that anyone can predict how a child will turn out or what will happen along the way, and honestly, not all little boys become doctors, firemen, or hockey players, but when those options are out of reach from the very beginning it’s difficult to accept that there are a lot of other really fine options. We come to realize, as time goes on, that a child’s inner strength will guide him toward his own interests and abilities and although they might not be what we wished for in the beginning, with support, encouragement and acceptance, his life will be his own and he will be fine.

I understand this fear of the unknown completely. I am plagued by the same thoughts. But the bonus of age and experience, plus that optimistic nature give me an inner peace about this little guy. He will find his way and he will be good at what he does. He travels to a different drummer, for sure, but he most certainly is an essential part of the parade.

I don’t know what to tell this daughter that would help her stop worrying. I just hope being along on the journey with her helps a little.