I wish the camera on my Blackberry still worked. I wish I had taken a photo of the line up when I turned up a half hour before the clinic opened. It was the longest line I had ever seen.

At first I felt bad as I was holding a spot for my family. Mark and I stayed in constant contact to determine how fast the line would go, when he should pick the kids up from daycare.  But then I felt smug. These people had their kids outside in the cold all day!  These poor kids!  These poor parents!  I am so glad ours showed up about 2 hours before their shots – we actually could have waited longer to bring them but we didn’t know how fast it would go.  They actually had a great time. It was a big adventure to be picked up early, to be fed lots of snacks, to be able to run around a big patch of grass.

I was there from 11:30 until we got the shots just after 5, and finally left the parking lot around 5:30.  Kind of unbelievable.

It was such a sea of modern humanity. Women on smartphones. Kids on Nintendo DS’s. Babies in smart strollers.

It was also a sea of confusion and misinformation.  We were given sheets regarding the priority groups and people still didn’t understand whether or not they should have had all their kids with them.

No one could accurately estimate how long we’d be waiting. I refused to give up. Loads of people in front of me gave up.

We got given numbers around 2pm.  With no indication of what the numbers meant in terms of wait time.

A young juggler turned up, put out a box to collect tips. I thought that was a great idea. He was such an entrepreneur.  And the kids were watching and clapping.

He left before my kids came. Other entertainment would have been a great idea.

Some catering trucks turned up.  Where were the other businesses?  We could have used some goodwill.

The staff were pleasant, but it’s almost surprising that in a crowd that size, there wasn’t more anger over the lack of communication.

I should have worn comfortable shoes and mittens. I was wearing pointy flats and a 3/4 length sleeve coat as I was at work 3 hours before I got there.

I should have brought food. Mark brought me lunch around 3.

We could have waited to do it another day.  We could have seen how this was going to play out, if the doctors’ offices were ever going to get it (mine said no).  But I didn’t want to wait.  I didn’t want to take the risk any longer that Callum, with his history of respiratory distress, could get it. Could drown in his lungs like the boy who died.

I can’t keep my kids in a bubble. I can’t pull them out of daycare and school in case they get exposed.  We are taking vitamin D (which we never did before). I hope they are washing their hands more in their classrooms.  But I decided that I wanted to give them this extra protection, after weighing the risks and options.

The nurse was nice. The kids watched us get ours first. We distracted them with Halloween candy. And it totally worked. The shots barely hurt and Oliver didn’t even cry.

Despite concerns about the process, about the vaccine, about the itchy bump on my arm (not an unusual reaction to a vaccination for me), I’m still glad we waited in line.  I really hope it works.

ps – this was our choice. I respect your choice, whatever that choice is. I hope you will do the same of mine.

As you read this, I’m probably pulling my hair out, about to scream at my kids who can’t sit still, feeling seriously frustrated. I’ll be waiting in line for hours at a public health clinic in order to get my kids the H1N1 vaccination.
Because the torture of the lineup, and any risks associated with the vaccine, are totally TOTALLY forgotten about if I think about the potential consequences of them getting sick.

Grandad Fitton

This weekend, much of my extended family gathered for a quiet party celebrating my grandfather’s 90th birthday.  Well, it was MEANT to be quiet and classy but Oliver and Callum were invited too, and were little hellions as usual.

They were unfortunately most disruptive during a speech my uncle gave. After he scared me into thinking that *I* was suddenly going to have a make a speech as the oldest grandchild present (it was a joke, plus I was hiding behind my camera), he continued to explain a few things about my grandfather’s pretty amazing life.  I couldn’t do a better job, so I’ve stolen  it.  This is what he said, with a few minor edits and comments:

Dad was born in 1919 at Freshfield, about a dozen miles north west of Liverpool on the west coast of England. His parents operated a newsagent’s shop and the family lived upstairs. His brother Donald was born three years later. A couple of years after that, his parents sold the shop and moved to a poultry farm nearby. Dad and Uncle Donald enjoyed their childhood play with friends on that farm and on the dairy and pig farm across the road. At age 11, Dad attended the Secondary School at Ainsdale, about 4 miles further north, riding his bicycle to school each day. He swam a great deal, and developed the technique that he still uses today, almost 8 decades later.

In 1933, his parents bought a fish and chip shop in Southport, about 7 miles north of Freshfield, and the family moved there. Dad completed school, and worked for dentists making dental plates, then for an engineering company.

In June 1939, when it was clear that war was coming, he volunteered for the British Navy as an engineering rating, and was assigned to Devonport as his home port. He developed a habit, when encountering a type of engine for the first time, of pulling out and reading the technical manuals and writing to the manufacturer to obtain additional explanations and specifications, until he fully understood the engine. In 1941, he was posted to Trinidad, his job being the repair of the large number of ships of various nationalities and designs that moved in convoy along the east coast of North and South America. The best dry dock in the area was at Barbados, so he visited the island often to work on ships there. That, of course, is how he met Mum. They were married in 1942.  It was clear that he would be posted back to England in 1943, so Mum traveled in convoy, Trinidad to New York to Glasgow, in July 1943 and thereafter lived with Dad’s parents. I was born in Southport in 194-. Dad served in the Mediterranean on minesweepers for the latter part of the War.

In 1947, it appeared that Dad might be posted back to the Caribbean, so Mum and I traveled to Barbados in anticipation. Dad served on the cruiser HMS Jamaica during this time, but it was mostly operating far from the island for which it was named. We returned to England in late 1949, and settled in a house in Southport with Dad’s parents. It became clear that Dad’s operations would always be centred in Plymouth, so since by this time my grandparents had sold the fish and chip shop, we moved to Bere Alston in Devon in 1951, to be nearer him.  Margery was born there in 195-, and Nick in 195-.

In 1958, Dad decided that the Navy had nothing else to offer him, so he retired. He had four job opportunities, on an island in the Bahamas, in Nigeria, in central England decommissioning old coal mines, and at Quebec City working on icebreakers and supply ships for the Canadian department of Transport. He chose Quebec City, arriving in May 1958, with the family following at the end of July. We saw little more of him than we had seen while he was in the Navy.

 

 

In the summer of 1960, the family moved to Ottawa, and Dad took the job of Manager of the head office building of the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company, then situated on Wellington Street opposite the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa.  He retired in 1982.  Retirement did not slow him down.  He taught himself to ski, continued his swimming, did some serious scuba diving in various parts of the world, involved himself in many home construction projects for family members and friends, and has probably read most of the books in the adult section of the local branch of the Ottawa library.  He and Mum have until recently spent a couple of months each winter in Barbados.

Those are the facts. Now we get to the hard part. It is perhaps ironic that it is me speaking about Dad today. In the first 16 years of my life, I had seen him for less than about 3 months total. As a teenager, the time when one rejects all adults and particularly one’s parents, I spent only two years living with him. So Dad and I have really only got to know each other as adults, and at long distance since we live 400km apart.

But let me tell you what I see.

The Navy was a hard taskmaster, and Dad still has a residue of the brash and loud and commanding outer veneer one has to learn to survive there.  My daughter in law Mary Joy says that the first thing he said to her on being introduced to her 11 years ago was “I’m Arthur Fitton, and I do not have any great grandchildren yet”. [Lucky he didn't say that to me! I would have considered decking him]

Underneath that veneer is a different person. There is a very intelligent person, who lost the opportunity to go to grammar school and university because his parents could not afford to pay the costs during the Depression, but still reads half a dozen serious books at a time, and is well informed as to the national and international news and the economic situation.  He made sure that his children had the educational opportunities that they wished, and that message was passed along to his grandchildren.  Relatives completing their education in Ottawa have always been welcome in his home.  There is a very generous person, who has never hesitated to help family and friends. Yes, he can seem to be a bit cheap sometimes, but never on anything that really matters. There is a very caring person, perhaps not the huggy kissy kind, but one who genuinely cares about the members of the family.

That’s the Dad I see. He’s 90 years old in two days’ time for three reasons. First, he lives with a world class cook [my amazing grandmother]. Second, he has good genes. Third, he still has many things he wants to accomplish.

Dad, I wish you many more years, with good health and with the love of all of us.

Happy birthday, Grandad. Thanks to my parents for hosting. Thanks to all the guests for putting up with the rascals.

The other day Oliver brought home a library book from school for the first time. His school was newly built this summer, and the library wasn’t ready for customers until recently.

I opened up the plastic-covered book (ah, library books, I had forgotten) and started to read.

And then I stopped because it was about bullying. Actually, that’s not true. It wasn’t the subject matter, it was the language.  The protagonist in the story was expressing his feelings about being bullied so clearly (e.g. I hate them!  They are mean to me!) that I felt it would be too upsetting for him.

He’s not even 4 yet.

I asked him to tell the librarian how old he is (“3″ “Turning 4!”) and to ask for her help in selecting another book.

*

There are books in our library at home I won’t read.

They know this – well, Oliver knows it well now.

I won’t read Thomas the Tank Engine stories. I won’t read a lot of Scholastic books.  I won’t read Guess How Much I Love You even if the sentiment is nice.

[Lucky for them, Daddy will read anything.]

I like cadence. I like rhythm and rhyme. Overall, I just like a GOOD STORY.

I will read Goodnight Moon, the Runaway Bunny, the Gruffalo, the Gruffalo’s Child, Where the Wild Things Are, Olivia, anything by Dr Seuss, any of the Hairy McClairy books.

Yep, I am aware how evil that is.  But I have standards.

*

I change the channel if Max and Ruby comes on.  Unless I’m busy doing something else, and it came on by accident, and put them in a tv coma.  I won’t budge them from a tv coma.  That’s the best time to be able to get things done at home.  Tv comas, you make me feel guilty, but I love you.

I can’t stand that show, though.

I don’t like Franklin the turtle. I don’t like any of the slow and soft shows, like Little Bear.

I want more Yo Gabba Gabba.  I want more Sesame Street.

I grew to appreciate In the Night Garden.

I will tolerate their love for Dora and Diego and Chuggington.

I am glad they like the Backyardigans.

But there will be NO Caillou in this house.

* 

What about you – do you censor your kids’ books and television shows?

I’ve been lucky enough to be able to win some stuff on twitter lately, and/or to to be able to try some stuff for free through this blog.

Free blog stuff generally has a ‘cost’ – the writing of a review.

On twitter, the receipt of ‘stuff’ normally involves re-tweeting something someone wrote, or sending an email, or following a certain account to be considered an entry in a contest.  So I’ve got tickets, gift cards, CDs, all sorts of fun stuff — much of it I have passed on to other people.

About 10 days ago, I learned of a new corporate twitter account set up for @TassimoCanada, through someone I follow. Or actually several people I follow since everyone was curious how this first person ended up a with a free coffee maker.

The account said to send a direct message (like a twitter email) to be considered for receiving a machine. And that you must have ‘loads of [twitter] followers’.

Next, the account said you had to have more than 500 followers to be considered.

Well, I thought, that’s rather confusing.  The little angel that sits on my shoulder thought that contests should be fair, that rules shouldn’t be made up arbitrarily, PLUS you can only direct message between you and someone who is following you.  Which I pointed out.  And, what’s the catch here?  Am I selling my soul to a coffee machine maker?   Am I going to have to tweet about it all day? Do I even need a coffee machine?  I already have one.

The little devil that sits on my other should was kicking me in the head going DUDE FREE COFFEE MACHINE.  CONTEST FOR CANADIANS, THAT NEVER HAPPENS!  FREE APPLIANCE.  WORTH LOTS OF MONEY.  GET ONE! GET ONE!

I showed interest in receiving a coffee machine.  But, I also read my computer screen with a furrowed brow.  And felt simultaneously disgusted and empathetic at people literally BEGGING for Tassimo machines but not really getting a clear response.

Then someone I follow, who works in PR, wrote a blog post outlining her concerns, which echoed some of my concerns.  I tweeted that I hoped the company read it.

Suddenly I had an email in my inbox offering me a machine.  And an explanation of how the twitter selection process was working.

To quote:

We used a Social Media research tool called Radian6, to identify the top 300 most active Social Media enthusiasts in Canada discussing coffee and relevant social activities.

That was our starting point, and the goal was to give 300 machines for a simple reason, we believe that our “Product is our best Ad”. So we wanted to put in the hands of those people to experience it, and IF they like it, share their experience.

My first thought was (a) so companies are now analyzing twitter for where users are and what they are talking about, not really surprising and (b) what about all the people who still say they are in Tehran?

Anyway.

Back to ME.  I’m feeling weird. I just complained about a contest and now I’m being offered a machine.  But, I did ask for one.  And I’ve got that damn devil literally kicking me in the head saying YOU WANT FREE STUFF, GREEDY PANTS.

So I accept the offer.  And I’m feeling like a cool kid of the internet.  This doesn’t happen often.  I have, like, 10 readers.

While I’m waiting for my machine, people are still begging for them.  BEGGING.  I begin to hate to see the word Tassimo in my twitter stream.  I begin to consider unfollowing people that I normally quite like to follow.

Last week, the machine arrived.  My husband was excited and opened the box before I got home.  He called me to say just how generous the company had been with samples of their coffee T-discs.

I came home from work, and set up the machine.

It’s wondeful how much coffee and tea they sent .  But. I can’t believe how much packaging there is.  There’s boxes of T-discs in foil wrappers.  The discs themselves are plastic and foil.  There’s water filters wrapped in plastic.  There’s none of this stuff if I just make a pot of coffee. Or even froth some hot milk.

The wasted pods after making three drinks.

I try a chai latte.  It’s okay.  Too sweet, actually.  I wouldn’t add sugar if I made it or bought it myself.  Oh look, sugar in the package ingredients.  And some weird other chemical sounding things.

The next day I try a regular latte.  It’s not really good.  And not really latte like.  And hey look more weird ingredients.  I guess that’s what you get when you can store milk discs on the shelf.

I look into the price of the replacement T-discs.  They run around $5-$10 for 10-16 cups of coffee. WHAT?!  If you are like me and not buying coffee at Starbucks everyday, that is insanely expensive.

I can spend up to $15 on a package of coffee, from run of the mill boring stuff to exceptionally good fair trade stuff and still come up WAY WAY less than that in cost.  That package or tin of coffee can make so many more cups of coffee than one Tassimo package.  And of course to make my own coffee means I am controlling what’s in it.  Everyday, I take a large flask of coffee to work that probably costs me about 50 cents to make.  Maybe less.  That includes flask, mug, coffee, cream and sugar.

If I want a specialty coffee, which I don’t have that often, the Second Cup makes a great latte.  Greater than the one I made, for sure.

So…

1. Weird contest that wasn’t really a contest
2. Too much packaging
3. Strange ingredients
4. Expensive coffee
5. Doesn’t taste that great

Sorry, you’re out.  I decided I needed to give this machine to someone else.  Someone who will appreciate it.  Luckily I have a good real life friend who also asked @TassimoCanada for a machine.  I hope that in her situation, they will get way more use out of it.

I saw Tassimo t-discs at the grocery store the other night and they made me scowl.  I follow someone else who said this today, and I totally grinned.

For me, this PR exercise has been sort of a disaster.  But I’m just me.  On a larger scale, this is an interesting experiment that has probably worked.  I mean, the fact that people are talking about Tassimo so much that other people want to block them means they are getting word of mouth.  And it sounds like other people like the coffee/tea.  Good.  Just not me.

This isn’t about the Tassimo machine.  It’s about me. The lesson for me is to kick that devil back in the head.  Greed is not good.  Free stuff ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

There’s no such thing as a free lunch.

(One day I will learn. I am probably not ready yet. I am still a greedy bugger.)

(Open House at the local fire station for Fire Safety/Prevention week – a big hit in this house)

Mom Central Canada recently provided me with a copy of ‘Character is the Key: How to Unlock the Best in Our Children and Ourselves’, by Sara Dimerman.

I was interested to read this book in particular as I believe that character development is one area where we, meaning my husband and I as parents, are fundamentally responsible for educating our children.  I am perfectly happy for daycare or school or another caregiver or someone (anyone) else to teach them how to use a potty, how to tie their shoelaces, how to write the letter “O”. That doesn’t matter to me.  What matters to me is that I teach them to be kind, to be sorry when they hurt someone, to care.

The one thing that stood out for me while reading this book, the one thing that I will definitely start to implement? Instead of saying to the boys, as we do almost every day…no wait, more like almost EVERY 5 MINUTES, “say sorry!” – the author suggests instead asking “do you feel bad about what you did?” or “do you feel sorry about what happened?”.  That is brilliant.  Seriously.  No point in forcing them to mumble sorry if they don’t mean it.

Some of you will remember the time that I posted the story about Oliver stamping on an injured bird.  I was so upset with him and with myself that day. It hurt me so much because both boys have been raised to be kind and caring – and careful. As much as possible. I really do think, based on his normal character, that he was still mostly asleep and a little bit scared.  A year later, and I’d be able to have an actual conversation with him about it now.  Back then, he wasn’t even 3.

Although much of the concrete activities suggested, such as family meetings, are much more appropriate for older children, there were some tips for younger children that I took away.  When teaching character, or pointing out an example of good character, she suggests using the word itself.  E.g. “Callum, it was so great of you to persevere, the way that you kept trying to climb those steps to the slide until you did it!”.  I would never have thought to say ‘perseverance’ to my kids; I’d normally sing “keep trying, keep trying, don’t give up” – a little ditty from Yo Gabba Gabba.  But I like that idea, of using the proper word, probably because I am a fan of expanding vocabularies.

I also like the fact that Dimerman is Canadian, that the book has a Canadian context – and for me a very local context.  She mentions the Character Matters initiative at the York Region District School Board – which is our local Board.  It pleases me that my kids are going to school in a region that recognizes character development as important in the classroom as well as at home.

I think this book would be a useful addition to a list of parenting education books, such as those that a parenting group facilitator may use.  The only downside for me was that I probably already knew that much of what she was suggesting was a good idea, and we are already actively modeling the character traits she mentions (hopefully most of the time, anyway – no one’s claiming perfection around here).  So this book would be recommended reading for parents who might be struggling with their family situation (e.g. going through a nasty divorce, facing other kinds of hardship).  And I think I will draw on it more in the future, when the kids are older, and things may be slightly more democratic than they are now.

*

‘Character is the Key’ can be purchased at major book retailers such as Chapters.

I wrote this review while participating in a blog tour campaign by Mom Central on behalf of ‘Character is the Key: How to Unlock the Best in Our Children and Ourselves’ and received a gift certificate to thank me for taking the time to participate.

Still talking about the Bunch party. Sorry. But there was a Yahoo! Canada photo booth there, as there normally is at those events, as well as roaming photogs and cameras.  And I took the kids to the photo booth, and with the help of the staff, convinced the always reluctant Oliver to get in the picture.  Callum is never a problem. He LOVES the camera.

For the record, I love this photo. That’s what Callum’s face looks like when he talks to me.  That shining face, I swear it’s just oozing adoration.  That kid adores me like no other and I can’t help but eat it up.  And yeah it’s demonstrating that I need a hair cut, too, but let’s focus on that gorgeous face of his.

Finally. Finally we get Oliver in the picture and they take the photo and all I can think is – for ONCE, for once I have a photo with me in it with both my kids.  I can’t wait to see how it turns out.

Oh god.  There I am, mid-sentence, telling them what to do.  I think it was like “stand together and smile!”, or something.  So incredibly unflattering!  Hurrah!

But, at least I exist.  Because other than these photos, I don’t exist since the last photos I was in, probably from a year ago.

It leads me to automatically think, what if something happened to me? Wouldn’t they want to know what I looked like?  Wouldn’t they be curious about this woman they probably would barely remember, what she looked like?  Because I would.

I’m not irreplaceable.  If I got hit by a bus tomorrow, and Mark remarried (you know, after the appropriate grieving process, give him about 6 months), I am sure they would love their lovely step-mother and be wonderful people and get on with their lives.  But if I was them, I would want to know about me.

And yes this is the depths of my insanity. I get my photo taken at a kids’ party and I’ve already married my husband off and given my kids a new mother.  Welcome to my brain.

My brain that is in my head that is always behind the camera and never in front.

(photos borrowed from Bunch’s Flickr stream – thanks for capturing my existence!)

PS – yo Canucks, happy turkey weekend.

Went to a party, promoting that upcoming film that looks pretty magical. And would probably scare the pants off my kids. But Oliver ADORES the book and can recite half of it. So we had to go have a wild rumpus.