Never mind the Soup Nazi, here's the Playground Nazi!

Remember the Soup Nazi? Well, he's now got his own Wikipedia page. But I have someone better. The Playground Nazi.

We often arrive early for school so I can run the kids, filling their little bodies full of fresh air and (hopefully) tiring them out so that I can do this in the hour or so before I have to turn around, bundle everyone back outside for pick-up.

Our Preschool backs onto a Junior school, so there is no lack of kids during the lunch hour. There are the usual dynamics - some sports, some huddled conversations, some chasing, but always a lot of activity. And there are the monitors. First there are the Peer Monitors, in their day-glow orange pinneys. Then there are the adult monitors. Generally, they seem nice enough - parent volunteers, retired community members - you know the type. But there's always one.

The Playground Nazi is a regular. She is a rotund woman and quite short in stature - she is unfailingly dressed in a woolen headband, winter jacket and crossing-guard vest. She has instructions pinned to the front of her vest, and often carries a bullhorn. She is the Playground Nazi.

The Playground Nazi doubles as the No Fun Enforcer. She refuses to let the kids see how high they can swing, or run (rather than walk) along the top of the jungle gym. She always bellows, never speaks, and it's usually a choice phrase such as "WHAT ARE YOU DOING????!!!!" The Playground Nazi doesn't let those kids budge an inch, never mind a foot, in order to safely explore and define their boundaries. Large groups of children are immediately and suspiciously broken up. Boys are looked upon with an "I know what you're thinking and just don't" hairy eyeball.

It's like watching a BC Ferries worker in action - bitter, hunched and desperately needs to leave the party, but neither knows how nor cares to make the effort.

Perhaps she needs to be called in to dinner?

Dhal Bhat Night: forks are for sissies!

My cousin Steven recently visited Nepal on a three-month volunteering mission. He came back thrilled by the experience, humbled and full of incredible stories, food and pictures.

The family got to experience a taste (literally) of his journey through Nepal this last Saturday, when he invited us over for a dinner of Dhal Bhat. For extra added fun, he served it the traditional way. (read: no cutlery).

The food was delicious - aromatic with all the spices hand-blended; there was rice, lentils prepared two ways, a veggie curry and a delicious mango chutney. I was a little concerned over the lack of forks when I saw the consistency of some of the lentils, but as Steve suggested, if you just mix it all up, the rice absorbed some of the extra liquid, and it became more realistic. Steve served us all in traditional Nepali dress, and taught us some basic phrases, which I wish I could better get my tongue around.

Suffice it to say that while some remain mortified by the entire experience, (well, at least the feeding portion), it was a stellar night with beautiful pictures and even better company!

Thanks, Steve!

Beware of the "Fat Mommy"

Loyal readers will know that while I aspire to dress like Andy in The Devil Wears Prada post-makeover, I actually end up dressing like Andy pre-makeover most of the time. My fashion desires are one thing, but the reality consists mainly of yoga pants, jeans, sturdy running shoes and practical, easy-to-clean cotton.

I do, however attempt to follow the fashion world, so that secretly, inwardly if I had the means, time, lack of spit-up and destination, I would dress like all those up-to-the-seconds on the fashion circuit. Hell, I would even be so fashionable as to not even be in fashion yet!!!

So it was with a bit of laughter and a bit of sadness that I read in the paper today a fashion high point and a fashion low point. Just in time for Berlin's Fashion Week, Brigitte Magazine announced that after reader-polling, it was firing all their wafer-thin traditional models, and instead employing women like ourselves to model the clothes, cosmetics and accessories in the magazine. Karl Lagerfeld quickly denounced this action as catering to the "Fat, chip-eating jealous Mommy", no doubt with a disdainful sniff and toss of his impeccably silver coif.

I am of two minds. The feminist in me says "good for you, hooray for realistic portrayals of women in the media". The secret fashionista is conflicted. Haute Couture is art, and as such was never designed for the average person. It is an elevated art form of our everyday pret-a-porter selves that 98.5% of the population will neither ever fit nor afford. Does this decision then both compromise the artists' vision and pervert the manipulation of the "canvas"? While Lagerfeld tends towards the dramatic, this "Fat Mommy" feels he may have a point.

Thoughts?

Canada For Haiti

I'm sitting here, typing this blog post while George Clooney's Hope For Haiti Telethon wraps up on the heels of the Canada for Haiti special, with my fridge stocked, my heat on, my babies warm and dry in their beds, and my family warm and safe in each others' arms tonight. I am so very, very fortunate.

The two telethons pulled out all the stops, and I mean all. Bono sang with Rhianna. Jack Nicholson answered phones next to Jennifer Aniston. Anderson Cooper interspersed with heart-wrenching stories of babies being pulled from the rubble eight days later and surviving - mothers digging their children out with their bare hands. It looks like Hollywood genuinely came out to support, in all its' dressed-down, understated, acoustic power. And what a power it was. Clooney stepped up admirably, and rallied Hollywood as only an A-lister can, to do something positive, with depth and sensitivity.

The result was frankly hard to watch. While my heart celebrates the common thread of humanity we are still capable of picking up to help each other in times of great need, it also recoiled at the sheer magnitude of the devastation, and the images on screen. For the first time in my life, I had to look away for a moment and collect my thoughts. I cannot mentally comprehend what the people of Haiti are not only facing today, but in the months and years to come. What are the long-term effects going to be on that little boy that was stuck in the rubble for eight days? Will the U.S. learn from Katrina and offer up aid more effectively and proficiently? What will become of all of those hundreds of thousands of people?

Kind of puts the O'Brian/Leno/Letterman debacle into sharp perspective, doesn't it?

My Grandmothers' Desk

The Vancouver Sun ran a series over Christmas of special objects, and the meaning they held to their owners. More often than not, it was not a fancy new car, or a priceless jewel, but things like a well-worn cookbook, or an old leather steamer trunk. I followed this series with great interest, as it not only seemed to embody the true spirit of Christmas, but also brought with it some fantastic stories of people's histories, and of family.

My Dad recently brought over one such object for me; a family heirloom that is not measured for its' antique value, but rather as a total embodiment of a very special and influential woman in my life: my Grandmother.

Nannee was old-school, but pretty cutting edge for the time from the very beginning. Her father, prominent Vancouver lawyer, Reginald Symes, gave her a car very early on so that she might always make it home safe and sound. She was an avid tennis player, gardener, UBC student, voracious reader, and intensely intelligent. Among other things, after marrying my Grandfather, she followed him overseas during the War, and ended up driving round a tea truck in the field; serving tea and biscuits to the soldiers. She was a consummate hostess, wife, mother and a true Chatelaine: her later years as the Lady of Government House while my Grandfather served only cemented this.

One thing Nannee always kept up was her correspondence. She, (like me) had a penchant for good stationary, and I can remember the thickness of her cream envelopes, and the rich, dark indigo fountain ink of her letters. From the house in Vancouver to the residence at Government House, to the flat in West Van., she spent many hours at her desk, keeping up the household and personal communications. Her desk was uniquely her: tall, understated, neat and tidy, yet full of a rich cornucopia of roads traveled and stories told. I loved her desk, as it was so quintessentially her.

And now it belongs to me.

Thank you, Dad. There is a little piece of my heart that is a little fuller today, sitting here at Nannee's (now my) desk, writing.

Humble Pie: A guest blog

I am blessed with knowing some pretty amazing and diverse people in my life, and I thought it would be interesting to ask them to guest blog here for a change of voice.

Below is a guest blog from my sister, Charlotte, who is currently at UVic with rocks in her head. (Geology) Interesting to see a 21-year old's perspective.

Humble Pie: the perfect addition to an entrée of Eating-Your-Words

If you secretly love to watch someone else eat their words, put their foot in their mouth, and munch on some fresh baked humble pie – hang out with me. You’ll be saying “Told you so…” more often than Canadians apologize.

I’m a geology student most of the time, and an attitude-filled know-it-all the rest of the time. I have a condition called ‘Know-it-all-ism”. This is an affliction that one mainly associates with high school teenagers and brown-nosers of various ages. Unfortunately for this group, their taste for humble pie doesn’t develop until later in their teens. Me, on the other hand, I’ve had my fair share of this particular kind of dessert and have grown accustomed to its bitter taste and gritty texture.

The most recent outbreak of my ‘condition’ occurred just this past week when I was so kindly given the use of my dad’s car while he was on vacation.

Ten days into my blissful stint of having a car, it breaks.

Being a scientist I immediately jump into ‘blame-it-on-some-kind-of-law-or-theory-or-whatever’ mode. It’s usually Newton or Einstein, but this time I chose Murphy. Yup. Murphy’s law has struck again. Give the kid the car, and it’ll break.

Because of my ‘condition’, I tend to forget the fact that parents usually DO know more than I do. I just go about doing what I think is best, no matter what anyone says. In this case, I decided that the brain power of myself and my friends combined far outweighed that of my parents. What do they know? They couldn’t hear the car and the funny noises it was making! They didn’t see what it was doing and what it was not doing! Silly adults.

Some friends came over on difference occasions to take a look at it, and when they heard the sound it was making each exclaimed “the starter motor!” Trusting and caring for my friends as much as I do, I believed them (keep in mind that I have no idea what a starter motor is or where to locate it).

Cue argument and ‘know it all’ outbreak.

Parents: “It’s the battery!”
Me: “It’s the starter motor! It’s what my friends said, and I don’t want to talk to you about it right now because you’re not even in the country and you can’t hear the car!”
Parents: “It’s the battery…. Call BCAA”
Me: “No! It’s NOT the battery! Why aren’t you listening to me…!?”
(this argument continues for about three days until my parents finally start to give up)
Me: “It’s the starter motor! I’ve called the tow truck and they’re on their way”
Parents: “Cancel the tow truck – it’ll cost an arm and a leg because it’s a 4WD and it’ll cost more for an assessment at the shop! Plus, it’s the BATTERY!”
Two days later…

Professional mechanic: “It’s the battery.”

(Well technically it’s the alternator, but the point is that it’s not the starter motor)

I, like so many before me who went against the all mighty parental unit, was wrong. The only difference is that I’m not a teenager nor am I in high school. I’m an educated university student who still goes home to find that mum and dad with a nice steaming plate of humble pie ready for me. It took me a while to get my foot out of my mouth to eat it, though. Does the drive to know more than your parents ever wear off? Its sure taking long enough…

Oh well, it’s one more entry for my big book of life lessons.

Ignorance precludes a conscience.

My parents moved back to the mainland recently and hired a house-sitter for their place in the Gulf Islands. Technically, they didn't hire her, they actually provided her accommodation free of charge in return for watching the place. It was mutually beneficial. They needed someone to keep eyes on the place, she needed a new living arrangement fast. And so it worked.

Or so they thought.

Turns out, the house-sitter had some pretty funky ideas on how to care for a house. Apparently, letting her dog pee all over the carpets was deemed "acceptable". (no need to clean it up right away when you have carpet cleaners coming in a year!) Letting food rot in kitchen cupboards to the point of breeding a maggot colony was also deemed "no problem". And even though the house was furnished with antiques and clearly 'good' furniture, taking off for days at a time and letting her teenage son come in and rock the place with a good old-fashioned "the-parents-are-away-so-lets-get-all-boozy-on-Mommy's-beer-and-trash-the-place" was cool. Never mind that stuff got damaged and then hidden in back corners and dark closets to try and mask the damage, Mommy was there with a big fat chequebook, declaring she would simply pay for all the damage, and name your price. Never mind that she was there as a (now former) friend to look after an investment while also being offered sanctuary; she thought taking off for days at a time was 'cool', leaving the rural, sump-pump-regulated property to flood when the power kicked off and the sump stopped working.

So if you were offered a sanctuary in return for 'looking after the place', and said place was filled with moderate to very nice things, and there was no rent to be paid, how would you treat the opportunity?

Not, I assure you, as my Parents' dearest house-sitter did.

The Perfect Neighbour

Walking the EBD lately around my neighbourhood has given occasion for more frequent and detailed observations of my neighbours.

A couple of blocks away, there is a family. There is an older husband, younger wife, older boy and younger girl. We have observed the addition of a two-car garage and subsequent concrete stamping and polishing of their driveway. What makes this house and family noteworthy is their absolute faultless impeccable neatness. I mean it. Like beyond OCD, crazy ridiculous-how-do-you-accomplish-this-with-two-kids-and-working-full-time-ridiculous.

The hedges are planted an exact, even space apart. The leaves are raked up within 24 hours of falling from the tree. The tulips are colour-cordinated and evenly spaced. The mags to each vehicle are washed and polished every Saturday. Heck, even the tires are polished.

This Christmas, not only were the lights all of a uniform colour, but even the gutter clips hung at an evenly-spaced rate. At first, (and I know what you're thinking Alison), I admit I was a little jealous. My house is neat and clean, but not all the time, and not to hospital-grade sterile specifications. I admit I did envy our neighbours, and then I saw the Husband out front on a Saturday afternoon by himself, polishing his mags. And then I saw him the weekend after, out front vaccuming his trunk. And the weekend after that, it was something else. And so on, and so on.

And then I thought of his two kids and wondered if they missed time with their Dad.

And then I was glad of my dirty mags and less-than-impeccable yard, and went and played with my kids.

Dog Tells Time in Bizarre Walking Incident

I am dogsitting the EBD right now. For those who don't know, we did this about a year ago - took in my parents' dogs, and their chocolate Lab, "Tina" was hereinafter christened the Evil Brown Dog, or EBD.

EBD got her name from a variety of behaviours; general grumpiness, Lab-like mooching-for-scraps-then-barfing-it-up-all-over-my-newly-cleaned-rugs, emanating smells out of her not-so-better-end that would clear a room, nay a floor, and well, generally being an aging, grumpy old woman.

I found out tonight she can also tell time.

Having fed, watered and cleaned the boys up, I heard barking from the front door, at approximately 6:30pm. Turns out, she remembered it was 'walkies' time, and was waiting not so patiently by the front door for her evening constitutional. Thank goodness it was during the second intermission during the Gold Medal game of the World Juniors - I quickly threw the kids into the stroller, strapped on my shoes and yelled: "Walkies!".

She is punctual, to say the least.

Sleep makes *SUCH* a difference

I got four whole hours of sleep in a row last night.

Today, I feel like I could take on the world one handed, with a blindfold on.

It's amazing what your body can get used to, and how little it really needs to fully function. Darling Little-A decided he would sleep between 0130 and 0600. I don't know what possessed him, I don't care to question it, but man, do I feel better!!!

I might even get more creative in the blog posts and not just write about sleep and teething!

Woo Hoo!!!