On Being Friends With Family

How do I avoid housework? Well, I blog of course. I have company coming this weekend. My brother, sister-in-law (or sista' from another mother), my two beautelligent nieces, and their giant yellow lab. The weather and gas prices are conspiring against us, but we're all looking forward to an insane weekend together. My house is small, but just like my mother and my grandmother before her, the walls of our home just seem to expand as family walks through the front door. And, I guess if we can't go south this time of year we can at least plan some distractions. Maybe I can set up a spring cleaning  party and put everyone to work.

I consider myself lucky that my brother and I are so close. For a long time there wasn't just five years, but a couple provinces between us. Now, even though we're five hours away (four in an emergency) staying connected is much easier. He was such a brat as a kid. I can't believe we're friends now. When my little brother was too short to see over the corn stalks, I led him out into the big corn field beside our house and left him there. I was probably tired of hearing him make siren noises. I got a lot of reading done in that old apple tree before Mom came out to hang laundry and heard him.  Undoubtedly he was easily located because he had on his bright red fire helmet, with rotating red light and built in siren. I swear he didn't take that thing off for two years. Once a firefighter, always a firefighter. (Can you imagine knowing, with absolute certainty, when you are two years old what you will be when you grow up?) Now we talk on the phone almost every day. It's a great way to share a cup of long-distance coffee and parenting stories/nightmares, while avoiding housework. Are you starting to see a pattern in the avoidance thing?

We try to get our kids together as much as possible too. After all, some of my closest friends are the crazy cousins I grew up with. A lot of my best childhood memories are of hanging around with them. Sleepovers, family reunions, swimming, riding bikes, tobogganing, camping. There was nothing better than a visit from an uncle, aunt and cousins who lived on the other side of the country. Days were marked off on the calendar until their arrival. Back then there was no Internet, or long-distance phone plans. It was letters, visits or nothing. And family reunions were quite the production, given that I have around 100 relatives on my mother's side of the family. (Remember I mentioned our family anomoly, homes with expanding walls?) But the best part of the reunion happened a couple of days later when we got to see our names in the local paper. Grammie/Nana/Gam Gam/Gram/Granny/Mom would list absolutely everyone who came. God bless her. After raising eleven kids she deserved to brag.

Tonight, I'm going out for dinner with a cousin I spent most of my childhood with. We haven't seen each other since Christmas. There's nothing like that relaxed, comfortable feeling of hanging out with someone who's known you forever. It really doesn't matter how long we've been apart we just pick up where we left off. When I get home I'll probably call another cousin to chat. As kids, this particular cousin convinced me peony flowers are poisonous, and will kill ya dead if ya touch 'em. ( I believed that for years.) Then, when I get up in the morning, there will only be a couple of hours until my brother and his family arrive. I'll pass the time with the kids. There's a good chance when I sit down to have coffee Mom will call. I guess I better get that housework done. I have to get groceries too. What do you think? Should I pick up a big feed of corn for my little bro' this weekend?

Hockey Family? Us?

Hockey, the great Canadian game. I fought it for a long time, but I confess I've grown to enjoy it. Growing up, Hockey Night in Canada was the norm. With only two channels we didn't have a lot of choice. Everybody cheered for one of the Original Six. Young or old, we gathered as families and watched the game. Ah, but then came the teen years. Best friends and boyfriends took me away from the game and out into the big wide world. I replaced watching the fuzzy players, on the floor model TV, with live high school hockey. That didn't last long. My high school was denied a team because there were too many fights in the stands. It's all about passion for the play. I'm Canadian. Hockey is in my blood. I denied it for a long time. Sort of like being asymptomatic. But I surrender. How's that old saying go? If ya' can't beat 'em, join 'em.

My mother in law in an avid hockey fan. She watches a couple of games every week all season. She passed on the hockey gene to Chris. A couple of years ago Chris started seriously watching hockey. He developed an obsession for the game. He knows all the stats, the trades, the coaches, the dates and times of all his games. And we all know there's 'an app for that'. He has the big TV, and the comfee couch. So Chris set the stage. Three kids. The odds were against us from the start. Being exposed to hockey and being Canadian, at least one of them had to fall in love with the game.

We wanted all three kids to know how to skate. Skating is great exercise. It's something you can do pretty much your whole life. And there is nothing like outdoor skating. So we put all the kids in CanSkate this year. What a fantastic program. So much fun. The kids have learned a lot. We promised Thane, if he got the first three levels we would put him in CanPower (kind of a pre-hockey program). Well, he flew through the levels of CanSkate in three months, and is still insisting he wants to join hockey. So I made a few phone calls. Flipped off a few emails. I needed more information. I got the information all right. Holy cow. Time commitment. Financial commitment. Volunteer hours, fund raising, driving, freezing to death in rinks all over the place. Uggh. Confirmation that my friends with kids in hockey truly should be given medals at the end of the season every year.

But, I think the volunteer club secretary put it best today. She laughingly said, "Call your lawyer. Ask her what she'll charge per hour when you're making arrangements to bail your teenagers out of jail in a few years. Hockey is an investment in the future of your kids." (I wonder who told her our kid's nicknames are Probation, Parole, and Lifer?) Anyway, judging from the kids I know who are in hockey, or who've been involved in hockey in the past, she's right. Who has time to get in trouble when they are busy with practice, games, and tournaments? So Chris and I will sit down and talk about the logistics and the finances. Registration for the fall is in May. Crazy. Maybe that new vehicle will have to wait. Then again, Ava's telling everyone she's going to be a hockey player too. So, maybe we'll have to get an even bigger vehicle. That girl is destined to be a goalie. We'll figure it out. No matter what, it will be exciting. I'll wear my 'Hockey Mom' hat with as much pride as I wear all my other 'Mommy Hats'. I love being on this ride with my kids. Watching them try new things. Gain new skills. Develop their passions. Especially one as uniquely Canadian as hockey.

Morrison Minutes: Alcohol and Nine Year Olds

Morrison Minutes: Alcohol and Nine Year Olds: "Man, if you want to see a little drama start a dialogue about how old should your kid be when you talk to them about alcohol. Here..."

Alcohol and Nine Year Olds

Man, if you want to see a little drama start a dialogue about how old should your kid be when you talk to them about alcohol. Here's the situation. Yesterday, at my son Thane's ninth birthday party the kids got into a humorous conversation about drinking alcohol. About getting drunk.They were laughing and singing little rhymes about drinking and driving. This is my son's social circle. His closest friends. Here's a picture of these boys. They play hockey, and competitive soccer, they are in Boy Scouts, and a variety of other activities in the community. They are typically developing kids. Firstly, they didn't care in the least that Chris and I were standing a metre away from them. Secondly, did I mention they are nine years old. Maybe because it was the last birthday celebration in a string of way too many. Maybe it's just genetics, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut. For better or worse here's a reasonable representation of what I had to say to them.

You are nine year old boys. This conversation about drinking is not appropriate at a birthday party. I am telling all of your mothers you were talking about alcohol so they can give you the correct information you need. And drinking and driving is absolutely unacceptable and disgusting.

Well. Dead silence. Uncomfortable grins. A couple of apologies. Thane, used to me giving it to him straight, picked up his cake and asked if I could turn the radio on so they could dance. Party on dudes. No skin off his nose. Thane likes to know where he stands with us. It gives him comfort and stability. He's not a kid for surprises. So he won't be surprised or upset when I do call the other mother's, and the principal of their school to tell them what the kids were talking about. It's obviously time for these guys to hear the unvarnished truth about alcohol. Alcohol is a drug. Drinking and driving kills. A drunk kid is a defenceless kid. Alcohol and violence go hand in hand. And finally, drinking in moderation is how Mommy survives. Sorry. What I meant was, when you are an adult drinking in moderation is perfectly acceptable.

I too plan to get on the Internet and see what information Thane needs at his age. I don't want to offer a bunch of old cautionary tales that bore, or overwhelm him. I just want facts and truth. Then if he gets into a situation where he needs to make choices he'll make an educated choice. My kids aren't with me 24/7. They go to sleepovers, they go to school. They go to birthday parties. I'm not naive enough to think a nine year old wouldn't take a jar of alcohol to school in a back pack. Or sneak a beer out of the fridge to taste. If not this year, in the next couple of years. 

Here's the kicker. Thane has been asking sporadic questions about alcohol. Just as I pull dinner out of the oven. Twenty minutes after he's supposed to be asleep, two minutes before we have to head to the rink. Did these questions register on my radar? Truthfully? Barely. And until yesterday's performance, I didn't string them all together. Yesterday, I realized those boys have already been talking about alcohol on the playground. Singing about it. Sharing family practices. You know. My mom has a glass of red wine at dinner, but only with red meat. My dad buys a 24 of beer every Friday, and it's gone by Sunday morning. The first time I raised my head to the conversation the boys were having a kid was describing his grandmother when she gets drunk.

This is 2011 folks. Sticking our parenting heads in the sand won't turn back time. Personally, I think it's pretty avant-garde to talk to your kids about serious topics. Even if you're kid's an angel, going to the best school, in the best neighborhood this parent/kid dialogue needs to happen. Because kids need to be prepared. Information is power. As parents we might as well start cutting our teeth on these relatively simple conversations, about alcohol. Not just because it's our responsibility, but because the conversations about sexuality, sex, and drugs are right around the corner. And if you're reading this blog you have no excuse. You have access to the Internet, your family doctor, your kid's school, Kid's Help Phone. It's all there. Set the precedent now. Start talking.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think of myself as one of those 'older' parents who takes life too seriously. The truth be told the songs the boys were singing were kind of funny. The stories they were telling were cute. I didn't tell them to stop talking about alcohol. We all know the fastest way to get a kid to explore something is to forbid them to explore it. I just told them not to talk about it at the dinner table at a birthday party. Unfortunately, it was just at the point when the drunk grandmother story was headed toward hilarious. Maybe Thane knows the ending...?  I am not an 'older' parent. I just have a good memory. I can still remember being sixteen, pouring my Dad's whiskey into a Mason jar to take to a sleepover. I'll never forget it. Because my father will never let me forget it. I took the expensive stuff and left the cheap stuff for him. Now that was drama.

On Patience

So we're driving along in the Blue Bomb (my old minivan/mom taxi) and I hear my four year old in the back singing at the top of her lungs, "I am slowly going crazy. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Switch." She is very proud of herself. Counting backward is something we've been working on. However, I am a bit taken aback by her choice of song. Hmmmm. I do love that little ditty. Singing it under my breath has become something of a mommy chant. A mantra to get me through times of parental insanity. Although an accurate way to describe my level of patience at any given moment, probably not the best choice. Self-talk is pretty powerful. Given how often that song goes through my head in the run of a day I'll be certifiable in a few months. Time to pick another catchy tune. Fast.

Ever since I can remember I've been told I have no patience. After a while I started believing it. Then I started to fulfill the label. Impatience leads to frustration, anger, and mega stress. As a parent there are many fine threads that tie you to your sanity. Patience is one of them. Snip that thread and entire days can unravel. Who has time for that? I've had to develop my patience. I work on it everyday. Some days are a write off. Some days even the Johnson's baby body wash being slowly dribbled over the oscillating fan doesn't phase me. Even when the ensuing bubbles could bathe an entire elementary school.

I think one of the hardest lessons I've learned as a parent is, "This too shall pass." Your patience doesn't have to be infinite. It has to last through a moment. Unfortunately, if you string enough of these moments together you get a stage. Like the sleepless stage, or terrible twos, silly, lying, biting, hitting, kissing stages. You get the idea. Ugh. But moment by moment you deal with it all because you're a parent and unbeknownst to you it's what you signed up for. Patience comes and it goes. Some days you have an excess. Other days you time yourself out, run to your room, lay on the bed and cry. (Oh, I know you do it. We all do.)

The important thing is to focus on the in between times. You know what I'm talking about. There are minutes, even hours, in a day that don't require patience. When your six year old finally understands how much it hurts you (and him) when he lies. The first meal you eat in a restaurant with the whole family and no one snorts milk out their nose. The day your daughter realizes running into your arms when she's frustrated is better than screaming and stomping her feet. If you acknowledge success you'll actually find you have more patience. Simple, but true. Live the moments in between my friends. Have to go. I hear my husband's ring tone. Love that catchy tune. Alvin and the Chipmunks singing, "We Are Family."