Addendum to the addendum to the I Hate Air Canada Rant

Apparently, Jazz flights are for old, crusty flight attendants who are meant to go to flight attendant purgatory before they are put out to early-retirement-package-pasture.  She got into a fight with some business dude in the first five seconds we were on the tarmac (over blackberry use - she was right, he was wrong, but she flew right off the handle in 0-60 seconds and yelled at him that he was committing a "federal offence.")  

And then, when I was again holding my child "wrong," she informed me that "I don't know if you know this, but the pilot can't land the plane when you are holding your child like that..." (because apparently pilots, like moms, have eyes in the back of their heads.  Unlike moms, pilots can also see backwards through doors and the bodies of crusty flight attendants). And, because this trip really needed a piece de resistance, she added: "This isn't a helicopter, you know!"  I refrained from saying: "It isn't?  Oh shit! I totally got on the wrong flight!"  

But just barely.

Addendum to the I Hate Air Canada Rant

So, I'm checking in on-line for the return flight for Boy-o, Girlio and I.  And it's all well and good until I note the seats they've given us all. 

Girlio and I - 11D
Boy-o - 12 F

Pardon Me?  No really.  Seriously? 

Mr. Boy-o, aged 3 and 3/4 gets seated away from his parent, who is clearly stated as his parent upon ticket purchase and in all pertinent information?   I get that he has a different last name than me, but is it really company policy to seat 3 year olds on their own?

I managed to change our seats (to the last available seats together, in the very front row).  But still.

What the Hell?

a crier. a must watch. but a crier.

http://tv.gawker.com/5663083/this-is-the-most-touching-it-gets-better-video-you-will-ever-see

travelling tales

I wish, that 5 and a half years ago, I had been a whole lot more understanding of my brother and his partner.  They had travelled to Canada from Australia with their 18 month old twins.  And they seemed so stressed out about everything.  We will never be like that when we have kids, we thought.  We will be so chill and relaxed.   

Ha.  Aha. Ha.  Ahahahahaha.  Ha.  How stupid we were.  Stupid.  Quite stupid were we.  Had we have known then what we know now about the incredible stressfulness of travelling with kids, we might have managed to be somewhat helpful.   

It is hard.  Like, bugger hard.  Even to places full of people we know and love, and who know and love us and the kiddos. The kids are out of wack, because they are not in their familiar surroundings.  And because you aren't in your own home, you don't necessarily have control over things you would normally have control over.  Mealtimes and groceries and house temperature and routine and naps and such.  Some of this you try to adapt to and some of this people try to make allowances around.

But sometimes there are things adaptation and allowances don't happen for.  And it sucks to have to talk to people about these things, as you worry about your kids, because you feel, you know, really farking annoying.  And so not chill and relaxed.   Because sometimes you have to ask people to reduce their comfort level in their own space, or to change the way they do things, for the sake of your tots.  For instance, I had to ask someone not to recline their car seat up against the baby car seat.... in their own car.  This is an unavoidable by-product of travelling with kids.  It's not anyone's fault - it's just the way it is.  You feel like you are always weighing imposing your schedule and way of doing things on someone else's.   Like - do I ask to turn up the thermostat, or do I bundle the kids up and cross my fingers and hope they don't catch a cold?   Or, puzzling over how to deal with the fact that the sheer size of dogs in the house we are staying in makes the baby cry?  Who knew?  She normally loves dogs.  (Apparently just not pony-dogs).  Not forseeable and not the pony-dog's fault, that's for sure!  These parts of the travel adventure aren't really fun for anyone. 

And then there are the logistics of travelling with children - one third of a suitcase for me and the other two-thirds, plus a whole other suitcase, plus two carseats and as many carry-on as they let us take, for the tots (plus Brown Bear and Mr. Snuggle-Puppy, naturally).  I become part pack-mule, part mama-airport-sherpa: schlepping toys and games and crayons a-jumble; navigating strange corners and security checks and crowds; preventing accidental gum theft and premature flushing from errant airport toilets (whose flushes we are afraid of).  I do all of this while attempting to keep the kids' combined enthusiasm and cooped-upedness in check, in the hopes that we will not fall under the ire of random flight-attendants and other passengers and airport travellers.  My kids are pretty experienced fliers, and yet still, sometimes we don't luck out in the child-friendly department, as my Air Canada rant will attest to.

Of course there are plenty of wonderful bits about travelling too.  Getting to see loved ones we wish we saw much much much more, play and delight in the kids.  Getting to see my Boy-o practically leap off of the airport escalator and fling himself with wild, devoted abandon into my moms' arms, screaming  "NANNIENANNIENANNIE!" and making everyone in hearing radius at the airport smile from ear to ear.  Having time to hang out with my moms, my sister, my reli's, and having the kids get to spend time with them too.  Showing the kids where my family and I come from, where my history is, where I went to school and all of those tiny bits and pieces of me:  all of these things are priceless.  Walking through Wolseley, eating Tall Grass bread (I'm sorry - but there is no better bread, not anywhere in the whole world and universe), and old haunts like The Falafel Place (mmmmm breakfast) and Baked Expectations (mmmm Caramel Pecan Cheesecake).  Having Thanksgiving for sixteen at Home St (my old house), which Boy-o called a party and at which he and Girlio had the most amazing time.   

Those lovely and wonderful bits balance out the tough parts of travelling with smalls.   But can't quite erase them.  Because as anyone who's ever travelled with tots will tell ya - no matter how well travelled the tot, that shit is challenging. 

(So M & T - if you're out there reading this:  I'm so not chill and relaxed.  Because no matter how nice the destination and travel and visit is, munchkin travel just ain't chill and relaxing.)

Time

Travelling.  No time.  Both children nap refusing.  Derelict blogger loses any chance of me-time.  But as my baby is screaming what surely must be baby profanities at me from her crib in the next room, and Boy-o is going pee for the fourth time in 10 minutes just to avoid falling asleep (where is he getting all that pee from?!) - I just had to try and remove myself from the drama for a minute.  So this is my attempt at saying something.  

So, you know, um, hi.

Guess me and the kiddies are going to play instead of nap today. 

(God help me at the witching hour.)

why we will never fly Air Canada again

She came by the give us the schpiel, and I expected it to be just like any other 'flying with infant' schpiel.   But instead, Ms. Highfalutin-flight-attendant proceeded to lecture us on how she believed that Transport Canada regulations for flying with children were wrong, and that we should all be paying for an extra plane seat for our infants and transporting them in their carseats because it 'really isn't safe any other way'.  She knows that it's hard to lug around carseats in an airport, but it really is the safest thing for them.  And while we're at it, we ought to consider bringing along Boy-o's carseat too.  The mind boggles at the entourage it would take to carry the children, carry-on arsenal AND two carseats through the airport witout requiring a trip to the looney bin.  The mind also boggles at what, exactly, the lady would like us to do about her safety opinions two seconds before take-off, with our car seats checked, and an overbooked flight.  Nevertheless - apparently we are bad, lazy, cheap parents. 

Then, just before take-off, she came over the intercom to inform my partner that she was holding Girlio incorrectly.  Over the intercom.  The intercom.  For starters, Girlio was facing backwards, standing on L's lap, with her head buried in L's neck, and her back, head and neck supported by L's arms.   We've taken off and landed like every other time we've flown.  But apparently she needed to be sitting down, facing backwards with her back and neck supported. (And if anyone can successfully undertake this feat with my child, I'll give 'em a million bucks). At any rate, now we are also negligent, slightly stupid parents (which everyone on the plane both wanted and needed to know).

Then, when we were getting off of the plane (having somehow - cheap, neglectful, morons that we are -successfully managed not to let our child get irreparably maimed or broken during take-off, in-flight turbulence, and landing), and we thought we were safely out of the clutches of flight-attendant-zilla, she takes aim at me this time.  As Girlio and I are departing the plane, she takes me aside and tells me: "See - children that are as active as her really need to travel in a carseat."  (And I should clarify that "active" in this context meant that she travelled from L's lap to mine, not up and down the aisle.)  I say  nothing and don't even try to act polite at this point.  But she continues bravely (or stupidly) on: "But she must be just about two, right?"  When I let her know that she's actually only 15 months, as I'm beginning to walk away, she calls after me (in a somewhat accusing voice) "Wow.  BIG girl."    (Not that it matters, but she's actually ridiculously average.  50th percentile in height and weight.  Just sayin').

So, just to recap, we are bad, lazy, cheap, negligent, slightly stupid parents, who have probably lied about our gigantic baby's age.

So Air Canada - your planes aren't nearly as nice as your competitor, your tickets are more expensive, you overbook your flights and your horrible flight attendant almost got thrown onto the tarmac yesterday.  And you can take my word for it when I say that no one on our flight woulda blamed me. 

You won't be benefitting from the proceeds of our credit card anymore.

Thanksgiving...

So so much to be thankful for this year:

In no particular order -

• waking up to the sounds of giggly children and birds, not warplanes
• my lovely wifey, who sticks by me through it all 
• my son's huge heart and endless capacity for empathy
• my daughter's fiest and toothy grin
• getting a bit more sleep these days
• getting time to chat and cook in the kitchen with my mama
• beautiful friends scattered clear across this country
• loving and supportive family
• living in one of the most beautiful countries in the world
• having time here and there to write
• having folks who take the time here and there to read what I write
• good books, though I may not get as much time to read as I would like, I know they're there
• sharing a glass of wine with my wifey and talking about our days
• fall leaves
• new beginnings
• my family's continued run of good health
• an unseasonably warm Fall (which makes up for our unseasonably cold summer.... brrr).
• the company of our very feline cats, who too often get neglected as we chase after our other littles
• being able to stay at home with my rug rats for as long as I want/need to
• having a life filled to the brim with love

these are the people in our neighbourhood....

When we had to move to Edmonton from Halifax a few years ago for my partner's work, we had a jetlagged whirlwind house-hunting weekend in which we saw a whopping 26 houses in a mere two days.  We weren't thinking about planning the kind of neighourhood that would be the right fit, we were just focussed on looking for the right house that us, our 18 month old son, and any future tots we might have could grow in.   We found the house, put in an offer, wrangled, bought the house, and headed back to Halifax on the red eye to commence packing and organizing.   We were more than a bit nervous about moving to the more conservative West.  We had no one who could tell us which neighbourhoods were more like 'gaybourhoods', and really hoped we'd managed to pick a neighbourhood that wouldn't be too weirded out by the gay folks moving in.

A month later, my wife already at work in her new job, my son and I pulled up outside our new home to wait for the moving vans.   We were almost immediately greeted by an older lady from the house across the street.  She didn't speak much English, but I did manage to make out the "where's your husband?"  Flinching inwardly at what I guessed was going to be an awkward exchange, I decided honesty was the only policy, and corrected her.  "My wife."  She looked blankly at me and repeated her question.  Once again, I corrected, "No, no husband... my wife!"  She looked confused for a few seconds longer before repeating: "You . . . You.... wife?"  I  nodded.  She promptly blanched and semi-surreptitiously made the sign of the cross.   I tried very hard not to snort out loud.  This was clearly not the 'gaybourhood.'  It's probably safe to say it wasn't the best ever first meeting between neighbours.

Icebreaker #1:  It was our 18 month old son that was mainly responsibly for winning them over.  I am a stay-at-home mom, and we spent much of the summer playing outside on the front lawn, and meandering through the neighbourhood trying to get our bearings.  He was always an infectiously happy little guy, and one morning, when we'd been playing on the front lawn, our across-the-street neighbour and her husband came over to our side of the street to see us.  And he thoroughly and completely charmed them with his 18 month old self. 

Icebreaker #2: It didn't hurt that we became pregnant with our second child shortly after moving to Edmonton.  Eventually, our neighbours realized that we're like the lesbian Cleavers.  Ward goes off to work everyday in her job as a prosecutor, and June stays home, with a bun in the oven (The Beave), taking care of our toddler (Wally), and doing every day June Cleaver-esque stuff like grocery shopping and cooking dinner and such.

Icebreaker # 3:  My wife became seen as the neighbourhood protector.  She is a prosecutor.  She also happened to call the police when some further away neighbours had a domestic dispute that spilled onto the front lawn.  And then when we all had some trouble with our drunk and departing neighbour, who was asking the old folks around the neighbourhood for money (accompanied by various sob stories), they came to L. for advice.  Neighbourhood protectors. 

And now - we get invited over for espresso, they let our son pick apples from their trees (which I promptly make into apple loaf and deliver one to them).  And when our daughter was born, they stopped by with a present for her.  Though - they were somewhat alarmed when they learned she would not be properly baptized (or baptized in any way, shape or form).  We pretended not to notice when they furtively made the sign of the cross over her tiny sleeping body. 

There's a language barrier, which probably in our case sort of helps our relationship remain in the safe zone.  Much of our "chatting" consists of nodding and pantomime.   I listen when they want to chat about health problems or things going on in the neighbourhood (of which they are the eyes and ears!)

Our neighbours have been in that same house across the street for over 30 years, watched their own kids grow and move out.  They care about this neighbourhood.  They care about us.  When Boy-o set off the firealarm which resulted in FIVE firetrucks descending on our home (as I have previously blogged about), they were the first ones to arrive on our doorstep to make sure we were okay.

We'll probably never be each other's ideal neighbours - but deep down, we're all kind of sweet on each other.  Just goes to show you that from time to time, allies can come from the unlikeliest of places.

swimming lesson rebels

While Boy-o is at school on Tuesday's, Girlio and I have started her first swimming lessons.  Now - I'm pretty relaxed about the business of swimming "lessons" for the 15 month old set.  For me, it's mostly about getting your child introduced to the water, playing around, trying out a float or two, playing with some water toys.  For some folks, however, the business of toddler swimming lessons is quite serious.  They undertake it with such zeal it appears as though they might expect their child to be the next Michael Phelps within the year (pot dabbling notwithstanding, natch).  Simmer down folks.  They're toddlers.  Pretty sure they can't yet be recruited for the Olympic team.

And our swimming instructor this go round seems quite intent on the business of dunking children.  A lot.  Yes, yes, I know that they say that the more you get your babies used to dunking the less the more they get used to it, etc. blah  etc. blah.  And I can get behind a dunk or two.  But every song, every game we underake in this half hour swim lesson results in one or multiple dunks or water face plants of some variety.  And my Girlio, she does not like the dunks.  Not one bit.  So each lesson, we try it once and if she doesn't want to do anymore, we don't do anymore.  It's simple enough for me.  She has years and years of swimming lessons ahead of her to put her face in the water.  I'm not going to make her cry her first go round because some 20 year old swim instructor thinks I should.   Because I think it's much more important for her to learn to enjoy and feel comfortable in the water than to feel anxious that I'm going to stick her head under water every five seconds.  And the instructor doesn't seem to really appreciate my perspective. 

Every class, she creates a water fountain with a hose that the kids are supposed to swim through, and if the parents don't put them 'through' the stream of water, she'll raise it so the kids (and parents) get splashed.  It's really annoying on a couple of levels.  1) I should get to say when and whether my kid gets her face splashed or dunked, and 2) I really don't appreciate getting my face splashed, my hair soaked, and my glasses all mucky (particularly by someone other than my child!).  This is my kids' swimming lesson, not mine.  So - after a few times through the hose, we 'accidentally' splashed her back.  Ooooooooops.  Sorry.  Were you trying to stay dry?

And then, I guess because there are a few parent dunk resisters, the instructor went through kid by kid, trying to lift them and dunk them back to their parents.  Well, my Girlio, after watching her do this to a couple of kids, got lifted up for her turn, stuck her face in the face of that instructor and said her loudest, boomiest, sternest baby voice: "NOOOOOO!"   Every eye in the pool turned to look as the instructor handed her right back to me.

That's my girl

Sarah Silverman on gay suicide...

I am sick, and having an epic-ly crappy day.  Too crappy to even write about, at least while in the thick of it.  So - today I'm going to let the lovely Sarah Silverman do the talking for me... 

Here's her message to America, on the topic of the recent explosion of gay suicides across America...


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WM6xbW1DZyM