The greatest show on earth

Mention you live in Calgary and the number one response will be: ‘Oh, Stampede?! Have you been to Stampede?’ There is a couple in our Muncie church who regularly makes the pilgrimage to Stampede. Apparently it’s that….good.

From what I can gather – hearsay, the odd advertisement – ‘Stampede‘ or ‘The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth’ occurs in the first part of July, shortly after Canada Day, and lasts for about ten days. It’s essentially a state fair with rodeos and musical entertainment all rolled into one; with half the populace wearing ‘western gear’ of some sort. And businesses and organizations everywhere hosting a ‘Stampede Breakfast’ each day of the festivities.

Jason’s department got in on the action, too. On Tuesday morning, they hosted a Stampede Breakfast (think pancakes and sausage served outdoors with an indie band playing vigorously), which we dutifully attended. The secretaries had created ‘Wanted’ posters with each faculty member’s visage emblazoned upon it. Naturally, I asked Jason to bring me his as a keepsake. ‘Put it with your Jon Gosselin autograph,’ he suggested.

At the preschool, the teacher had handed out little cards with information about ‘Kid’s Day’ at Stampede. There would be free admission, a free breakfast, and free cowboy hats. All for those who arrived before 9am. It seemed the least (financially) risky way to experience this particular aspect of Calgary culture. Still, we dithered about going. Right up to 11pm on Tuesday. I was leaning towards ‘not’ going. Jason, who previously adamantly refused to even contemplate the matter, was leaning towards ‘going’.

Yin and Yang. That’s who we are.

So, at 6.20am on Wednesday, when the Hen woke up, I decided it must be a sign that we should go. And proceeded to get ready, in an effort to get there by 8. So as to avail ourselves to all the freebies. Instead we left the house at 8. And drove to the University of Calgary, not the Stampede. Jason thought we should take the C-train (light rail) in, instead of trying to park our car in the mayhem. A wise idea, except it was quite a walk from his chosen parking garage to the train station.

There he was, pushing a speedy jogging stroller with a small person inside it, while I, at almost 34 weeks pregnant and holding hands with a five year old, lagged behind. ‘Hustle it up’ he called over his shoulder. I bit my lip in an effort to contain the choice words I wanted to toss back at him. Apparently I’m the only pregnant-woman-with-6-weeks to go who can’t speed-walk.

Naturally the ticket machines at this particular station only took exact change, which means we hopped on the train illegally; sans billets. I envisioned us getting hauled off the train by ticket agents, or being fined hundreds of dollars.

We arrived at the Stampede gate at 9am. Just in time to get free admission, but little else. We never found the breakfast – presumably it was gone by that point – and the ‘cowboy hats’, why they were blue paper cardboard hats with the sponsor’s logo. Judging from what the masses were carrying around.

Without an itinerary or clear idea of what we wanted to do, we wandered around aimlessly. Bought some overpriced food. Checked out some stinky farm animals. And then came the rides.

Mr. G had seen the cars from the ‘Skyride’ floating high above his head. He’d pointed to them and expressed an interest in getting on. So we, being good parents who want their kids to have fun, bought ride coupons and stood in line. Now, I’m not a fan of heights. At all. And I actually don’t like amusement park rides, at all.

As we waited in line Jason asked: ‘who wants to go with me, and who wants to go with mommy?’ Since we weren’t all going to fit in the same car. Mr. G clamored to go with his dad, which was great, except I’d already (mentally) decided that I would rather not take the little one in my car. Something about not wanting to be trapped at great heights with a screaming child who won’t sit down?

Suddenly it was our turn to get on; there was no going back. ‘How long is this ride,’ I asked the attendant in a panicky-trying-to-be-calm voice. ‘Oh, about ten minutes,’ she replied. That’s a long time, I thought. Jason and our oldest got on the first car. The Hen and I jumped onto the second one. It was going swimmingly, until my feet stopped touching the ground. And the Hen refused to sit down and started screaming. All my worst fears realized within the first ten seconds of the ride. And we still had nine minutes and fifty seconds to go?

Luckily he stopped screaming, opting to stand on my lap and look behind us instead. While I clutched him in an iron grip, trying to eradicate ‘child overboard’ images from my mind. All while trying to look neither up nor down. I had a flashback to the 7th grade when my sister and I had gotten on the ferris wheel at the Monongahela County Fair in West Virginia. How does it look so benign when you’re standing on the ground gazing up at it? Naturally the cars came to a halt – right as we were approaching the top.

Since neither of us had been on the ride before, we didn’t know it stopped periodically – to let other passengers on – or whatever. Both of us feared we’d gotten stuck. And we each freaked out. Me in my silent ‘if I don’t say anything, maybe it will be okay’ way. She in her not-so-silent ‘we’re going to die’ way.

Fast forward twenty some years later, and I’m suspended in mid-air, clutching my blue eyed cherub as though our collective lives depend upon it. Still silent; scared that if I actually voice my fears they will be realized. My plans for taking great pictures, evaporated. There was no way I was letting go of the Hen for even a millisecond to take a picture. So, with my camera strapped around my neck, I clumsily held it in my left hand, while trying to push the button with my thumb. Just like Annie Leibovitz.

As we approached the end, with our feet nearly touching the earth again, I relinquished my grip on the Hen and removed the camera from around my neck, in an effort to take a few decent shots. At the designated moment, we hopped out of the car. Except I’d forgotten the camera was just sitting in my lap.

Crash, was the sound it made when it hit the concrete surface. And as I stooped down to grab it, I got hit from behind by the moving car and yelled at by the ride attendant. Price saved on admission, $24. Probable camera repair, $400. Total experience, priceless.

‘Were you really scared,’ Jason asked me later, ‘because I was,’ he confessed without waiting for my reply. ‘I was holding onto our boy with all my might. He even said ‘Daddy stop holding me so tight’ but I couldn’t stop. Same thing when we went on the water ride. I was gripping him from behind with my arm, freaking out, while he was….laughing…having a great old time.’

It’s official: We’re just scared, old people. And we’re never going to the Stampede again.

Voices Carry

For a kid who’s not even two, our Henners certainly has a voice. His habit of saying ‘mommyeeeee’ or ‘daddyeeeeee’ repeatedly, insistently, usually for no reason whatsoever, takes me back on a daily basis to the movie ‘Forget Paris’. Debra Winger’s dad lives with them, and one clip shows him fixating upon a Toyota advertisement, saying: ‘you asked for it, you got it…Toyota.’ Over and over, in this terrible nasal voice, that would have driven Mother Theresa insane.

We were sitting in church a few weeks ago when Jason turned to me, deep in thought. I was under the impression he was going to share some profound insight with me. Instead he said, ‘how does she make her voice sound like a recorder?’ In reference to one of the female singers’ harmonies. If his observation hadn’t been remarkably accurate, I would have been really annoyed with him. Is the man incapable of having a deep thought?

But it’s true, I suppose that a voice can make or break a person. Whenever we go on a roadtrip, we usually procure a book on tape from the library. Several trips ago, I got Anne Lamott’s ‘Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith.’ Jason was so bothered by her voice that he couldn’t listen to the whole thing and I had to finish it alone. Apparently he’s okay with reading her books, he just doesn’t want to hear her reading them.

David Sedaris, on the other hand; the man could read a washing machine manual and we’d probably laugh. All he has to say is ‘I mean, really‘ and it’s funny: the mixture of paranoia, uptight voice, and odd expressions. Unlike Mr. Michael Ondaatje.

In an effort to force myself to read (aka expand my horizons beyond pathetic Facebook games), I signed up for the adult summer reading challenge at the library. A giant leap of faith considering the last book I read was at the beginning of April. And only because we were in the car for fifteen hours. This particular reading challenge consisted of listening to a book on tape (cd) or mp3. So I got Sedaris’ ‘When you are engulfed in flames‘ and Ondaatje’s ‘Running in the Family‘ or something like that. But after five minutes of listening to Mr. Ondaatje’s voice, I had to quit. The man may have a gift with words.

But I’d rather see them in written form.

Man lessons

There was a flurry of activity lin our backyard late Thursday evening. One minute Herr Johnson was raking and trimming living things. The next, he was hoisting concrete blocks, constructing something. A fire pit, of all things, I noted.

‘Why did you build a fire pit’ I asked him once the boys were asleep, in between rounds of Bejeweled Blitz. It was perplexing really, since we’re (mostly me) not exactly camper-types. And the boys and I aren’t huge fans of sitting in smoke. Something about that lingering smell that clings to everything for days afterwards. Oh, and the way it burns your eyes and makes you cough.

‘I don’t know, for educational purposes,’ he responded matter of factly. I threw him a quizzical look while waiting for my Bejeweled score to be tallied. ‘I thought the boys and I could sit there and have some man lessons,’ he explained. .

‘Man lessons?’ I questioned/clarified. ‘Are you going to talk to them about the birds and the bees or something?’ I could hear the look of horror forming on his face.

‘Uh, maybe that will be like lesson 30,’ he retorted before explaining ‘I thought I could show them the safe way to make a fire….not the unsafe/weird/open way other people do it….and then we could roast marshmallows one night….and put our tent out there the next…..’

And it all sounded very adorable and Little House on the Prairie-ish. But, come on, maybe that would work with other people’s children. Not ours.

From the minute he got up on Friday morning, our oldest talked about the campfire they were going to build. Shortly. I tried to explain that Daddy wasn’t going to build a fire until it was night-time. Not at ten o’clock in the morning. Finally around 5pm, out of ideas for entertaining the troops, it was fire time. Except we didn’t have any marshmallows or accoutrements. And I knew my oldest would not forget the promise of a roasted marshmallow.

So I drove to Safeway while the man-folk set about the arduous task of building a fire. The whining had started before I’d even left the house. And, when I returned, the troops were in fine form. The Hen wanted to eat his smore ingredients right away. His brother wanted to roast a marshmallow by holding it five feet above the fire. The fire had died and needed to be resuscitated. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth. Smoke everywhere. All while I stood transfixed, holding my plate of smore ingredients. Incapable of doing anything else.

With all the commotion, the first two mallows were blistered, black.

The Hen took his without a fuss. But I could tell Mr. G was torn: accept a burnt marshmallow, or wait for a not-so-burnt one? Greed won out and he took the crispy mallow. But it was our Hennie’s first time with a smore, I think. Judging from the way he took the sandwich apart and got gooey marshmallow all over his upper arm. Not sure how that happened. He’d eat a bite, throw a fit about his sticky fingers and limbs, eat another, throw a fit. And so it went.

G was sitting on his wooden stool, eating lustily, while complaining loudly whenever the smoke would get in his eyes. ‘Here’s your man lesson,’ his father instructed. ‘Get up and move around, away from the fire.’

Not quite the warm and fuzzy campfire scene he’d envisioned, I’m sure.

(In)dependence Week

It’s red and white (and blue) week this week, what with Canada Day and Independence Day just three days apart. Being a (pseudo) Canadian is a really perplexing thing – why is it so similar to America? The money is pretty much the same, the chain restaurants and shops are the same, they even have Thanksgiving (a month earlier, mind you) and a faux Independence Day’, though as Jason loves to point out: they’re not independent.

I flew to Montreal in the fall of 2000 (this is PRE 9-11, I should add). I had the audacity to fly without a passport. My rationale was that if one could drive across the Canadian border by simply showing a driver’s license, why should flying be any different? I tried to explain this to the customs officer who detained me. (Apparently I have a history of problems with customs officers.) ‘You wouldn’t fly to Paris without a passport, would you?’ the officer asked, dumbfounded at my stupidity. ‘Well, no,’ I wanted to say. ‘Because France is clearly a different country. Canada is only sort of a different country.’ But those are the kinds of responses that get you in trouble. So I just tried to look sincerely sorry and sincerely disinterested in ever defecting to Canada. And, luckily, I was released to enjoy a girls’ weekend with my mom and sister. Lesson learned.

So, as I was driving along the streets of Canada the other day, reflecting on the whole Canada Day-Independence Day conundrum, it occurred to me that I probably won’t hear the personification-of-Independence-Day song ‘God Bless the USA’ (or is it called Proud to be an American) this year. Which, despite having fond memories of singing as a fresh immigrant in 7th grade choir conducted by the very patriotic Miss Carolus, I’m not necessarily attached to. But it’s still a fact worth noting.

Thus, in honor of this week of patriotic celebrations, I’ve created my own version of the infamous chorus. Eschewing patriotic references. Because much as I love America and Canada, I’m not one for wearing flag t-shirts, or dressing up in red, white (and blue). Or putting little flags on my toenails for a patriotic pedicure.

It’s not of the same calibre as some of my other truly outstanding songs, in fact it may be the worst one yet, but I put it together in about 3 minutes. And it focuses on something we can all get behind – whether Canadian or American – dessert.

And I’m proud to be a North American
where at least the sweets roam free
there is pie and cake with whip-ped cream
e’en for those with a gluten allergy
and i’ll gladly stand up, next to you
for a second helping, too
cuz there ain’t no doubt i love pastry
God bless this continent

Judge not, lest ye be judged

My back is sore, my legs are sore. My eyes hurt, my vision is blurry and my wrists ache. As anyone who has ever been in the throes of a computer game addiction will know, it can be painful. My optometrist asked me the other night if I’d noticed any changes in my vision. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t referring to my newfound inability to focus due to prolonged playing of Bejeweled Blitz.

The problem is threefold, really. Mostly I just like dumb computer games – the kind at which zoo monkeys could beat me. Tetris, Jewelbox, Bejeweled. And obsessive playing of these games usually coincides with the later stages of pregnancy, for me. When I was pregnant with Mr. G, I asked one of Jason’s grad school friends to ‘challenge’ me on Bejeweled on a near nightly basis, because I’d exhausted my rights to the free online version. The only way for me to keep playing (free of charge) was for someone to invite me to a game. Even if they ditched me halfway through. And, frankly, Chau always ditched me since he could easily double or triple my pathetic score. With his mouse clicking hand tied behind his back.

So recently, while wasting some time on Facebook, I noticed many of my ‘friends’ were playing Bejeweled Blitz. A one minute, fast version of the game I played five years ago. I held off for several days, knowing it would only get ugly. But one night, bored and desperate, I caved. And just like that, I was hooked. And then, when I noticed my friend Jenny was ahead of me in the standings of the weekly tournament….well that was all the incentive I needed to spend the bulk of a day trying to improve my game.

I consider it cruel irony that I was able to come within 1300 points of her high score (88,500 to her 89,800) today. To come so close and still not beat her? That’s the ultimate in dissatisfaction.

My innate competitiveness very slightly exceeds the third aspect of my addiction: my apparent need for positive reinforcement. In my house, I just don’t get a lot of it. I asked Jason if he liked the strawberry pie I made yesterday. For a Canada Day potluck gathering. He responded: ‘yeah’. Yeah, isn’t exactly an enthusiastic response; nor is it indicative of any pleasure received from eating such a caloric piece of pie. But that’s Jason for you. ‘Yeah’ may very well mean ‘it’s the best piece of freaking pie I’ve ever had.’ Or ‘I’ve had better.’ Who knows.

But the voiceover guy from the Bejeweled Blitz game, is, or was, quick with the reinforcement I apparently crave. The game starts out with a ‘go’ which is particularly cute when parroted by my not quite two year old. And, as the jewels start disappearing, my announcer friend becomes more positive. ‘Good’ he’ll exclaim monotonously followed by ‘excellent’ and, if you’re really good…. ‘incredible.’

I might be more hooked on having my playing labeled ‘incredible’ than the game itself. Unfortunately, there was a long streak of games where I performed rather poorly, and the best my man friend would do for me was toss out a ‘good’. There may have been an ‘excellent’ thrown in occasionally, but there was no ‘incredible’ to be found. Anywhere. I started playing game, after game, hoping to improve my score so I could hear just one more ‘incredible’ but it’s as if he was purposely avoiding the word. The well of positivity had run dry.

So with tired eyes, and bad posture, I had to call it a day. That, and it was near the boys’ bed-time. And I felt like the world’s worst human being.

Funny thing is, Jason started out rolling his eyes at my newfound obsession, coming close to suggesting I was lesser-than for wasting my time in such a useless manner. And yet…the other night, as I was – yes – playing Bejeweled Blitz, I heard a familiar noise. It was him, sitting at the dining room table. Playing the same game on his laptop.

My announcer guy’s voice was a dead give away.

Friday Update: I’d made it all the way to 4.30pm today before logging on to play a game. Rather impressive, I thought. But, when I logged on, all that popped up was this message:

There was a major fire at Bejeweled Blitz’s server hosting facility last night. We would like to say that the heat of everybody’s gem swapping burned up the servers, but unfortunately in this case it was an actual fire.

Bejeweled Blitz will not be available until the damage is cleaned up and generators are brought in to restore power. Our current estimate is that we will be back up later tonight (Seattle Time).

When the game does come back up, you may notice that some of your friends’ scores from this week appear to have been erased. Don’t worry — all scores are safe and secure in our database, and they will start to show correctly as you and your friends visit the game.

Thanks for playing Bejeweled Blitz. We are working very hard to get the game up and running for you as soon as possible, and we appreciate your patience.

I can’t help but feel that I have incredibly bad luck as of late.

Missteps

I’m surely not the only person who has been asked the question: ‘what has been your most embarassing moment?’ I never have an answer to this question. Not because I’ve not embarassed myself. But because I embarass myself all the time. And, thankfully, forget about it soon afterwards.

Even as I sit here trying to conjure up a memory of an embarassing moment, I am drawing a blank. I will say my habit of mumbling/speaking quietly has saved me from many awkward moments – like calling people by the wrong name, or saying stupid things in response to others’ questions. I’ve found it’s best to have people say ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said’ than to know what you said, sometimes. I do recall being at a publicity event for Sir Elton John where I was standing around eating hors d’oeuvres. As often happens to me, something edible flew off my tiny plate and landed smack on the floor. At which point one of the uber wealthy would-be donors stepped in it with his shoes that probably cost more than my car. And gave such a look of disgust that I briefly contemplated running out of the room.

But I hadn’t yet finished all the snacks on my plate.

Fast forward to this weekend. In order to help out a friend and my own pocketbook simultaneously, I signed up for a few hours of working as catering staff. Also, I thought it might be nice to utter the phrase ‘I’m going to work’ for the first time in 11 months.

Bear in mind I’m 32 weeks pregnant; perhaps not the most conventional look for a member of a catering team. But my friend was desperate and I was willing, so I donned black pants and a black shirt, put on my apron and tried to look five months pregnant instead of eight.

Now I’m not particularly – at all – experienced in the art of serving at catered events, but I’ve been around the block a few times. I’ve seen people carry trays of drinks and food; offering them to guests. Fairly straightforward. Though I’ll say from my now limited experience the ACT of carrying around a small black tray laden with drinks or food is rather nerve-wracking. Especially given my history of clumsiness with food at fancy events.

As people began to arrive, I grabbed my first tray of champagne, took a breath and headed out the door, clutching the rubber tray firmly with both hands. Having successfully unloaded four flutes of bubbly, I breathed a sigh of relief and headed back inside to get more.

Grabbed tray. Breathed. Walked outside.

I didn’t want to walk through the crowd – it seemed like there would be a higher likelihood of someone bumping into me and causing disaster – so I decided to take the long way. Which involved walking around the curvature of the patio to where people were gathered. Safely out of harm’s way, I thought. Perhaps I’d gotten distracted by the gorgeous view of the Rocky Mountains, because the next thing I knew, I realized the patio was not, as I had assumed, flat. There was a STEP down and I was about to miss it, judging from the way my right foot was stepping onto air instead of solid surface.

I concentrated on landing in an upright position, because either way drinks were going to be spilled and flutes would be broken. My only hope was to save myself. As I nailed my landing like Mary Lou Retton, the tray teetered and champagne glasses tipped. Two fell off the tray, crashing onto the stone patio, as champagne spilled all over me. Fortunately the host was kind enough, and my friend assured me it happened to everyone at least once. I felt like I had a scarlet K (klutz) on my uniform as I ran inside to get a towel and a dustpan, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

I’m hoping my amnesia kicks in soon.

It hasn’t yet.

Throwing the baby out with the bathwater

I’ve been a mom for more than 5 years now. And it’s happened to me three times. It’s just something one doesn’t forget.

The first time, was the morning of June 29, 2004. We were flying back to the States from London that afternoon. I was taking a bath with my not-quite-four-month-old baby boy in the morning, before the taxi came to pick us up. When it happened. Horrified, I bolted faster from the tub than anyone has ever done in the history of bathing. A Guinness Book of World Records was surely set on that fateful morning. It took every bit of mental power I had to remember I needed to hold on to the baby in the process. I couldn’t discard the offender.

The next time was November 2007. Can’t remember the date. Luckily I was not in the tub when it happened. But I saw it. And it took all kinds of persuasion and cleaning for me to get back in the tub after that.

Then today. I gave the boys a long overdue haircut. Which necessitated a late afternoon bath. I was out of the bathroom for a few minutes when I heard my oldest say in an annoyed, though not overly panicky voice: ‘Mom, Henners pooped in the tub.’ Surely I heard wrong. Surely he was mistaken.

I ran into the bathroom, fully expecting there to be a misunderstanding of some sort. But there wasn’t. Mr. G had gotten it right, and was already vacating the tub. The Hen was standing up too, acutely aware that he was no longer in desirable waters.

It was one of those moments when I couldn’t have been more unprepared. I had used their bath towels to dust off their limbs post hair cut. Which means the blue towels were covered in fine pieces of hair, and could not be used to dry off the evacuees. The nearest clean towels were upstairs in a closet. No matter, by the time I’d reached this conclusion, the boys were long gone. Having foregone the ‘drying’ part of the bathing process.

Staring at the tub, filled with toys, washcloths and ‘other matter’, I had no idea what to do first, or how to go about the clean-up operation. What I really wanted to do was close the bathroom door and leave it for Jason to deal with. But truthfully, I couldn’t have handled hanging around for another 30 minutes, knowing what was on the other side of that door.

Calgon take me away.
Or not. Because I’m not getting in that tub any time soon.

Gradu-lation

It was an important event in the Johnson household tonight. Our oldest, the illustrious Mr. G, graduated. From preschool.

Unfamiliar with preschool graduations, I was a little out of my element; unsure how to approach the event.

Should he dress up? Should we dress up? Should I cut his shaggy-too-long-hair? Should I buy him a present? Do I make a big deal out of it, or pass it off as a low-key event lest he get stressed out by all the hoopla?

I went with a middle of the road approach. He took a bath – but only because he was filthy from playing outside. He wore a button up shirt…with jeans and tennis shoes. We wore nice-ish clothes. And Jason actually shaved, though he first came downstairs with a soul patch and thin mustache, claiming he’d run out of razor blades. We laughed heartily, with the tacit understanding he wouldn’t be leaving the house in that state. I didn’t cut G’s hair, because he kept coming up with excuses like: ‘maybe when I’m seven you can cut my hair’, or, ‘after my snack I’ll think about (whether you can cut my hair).’

I just didn’t have the energy to insist on a hair cut today. But apparently I’d mentioned his need for a hair cut for ‘gradulation’ a few too many times. As we were preparing to leave he announced: ‘maybe I’ll tell Miss Darlene (teacher) I’m sorry that I didn’t get a hair cut for gradulation.’ Surely he won’t be apologizing to anyone for the state of his hair when he graduates from high school.

If I really think about it, I can get a little sad that our big boy is growing up and moving on. Going to ‘big’ school is a big deal. But when a fellow preschool mom told me there’d be another graduation after Kindergarten, and in 6th grade, and in high school……I got a little less sad. I’m all for celebrating milestones…but let’s not create milestones out of thin air. Even if, as Jason liked to point out several times, only 60% or so of those assembled will actually graduate from high school. So it’s best to celebrate in the early stages. And often.

The thing about group milestone celebrations is they’re fairly miserable experiences. Just survey the crowd for proof. People are wearing clothes they don’t necessarily want to wear. A good portion of the husbands/fathers are late while impatient women save their seats. And the men – they’re scoffing inwardly at the lameness of the occasion; cracking jokes about the wedding singer-like entertainment, or busting out the lyrics to ‘Billy Jean’ by Michael Jackson. (Or was that just Jason.) People get irritated with one another for a variety of reasons…the battery in the camera is dead, the video camera tape/disk is completely full, overzealous moms are taking too many pictures before the event’s even started, the room is hot and crowded and smelly. And parents with little ones gesture irritatedly to the other about doing ’something’ to control their squirmy, unhappy baby/toddler.

By my count there were 36 almost-Kindergarteners in the room tonight. With their various entourages. The three classes entered separately; their members clad in a red cape and white cardboard hat with a taped-on red tassel. Each little person turning 360 degrees during the procession to try and find their parent – who is waving enthusiastically, mouthing encouragement and trying to make sure the camera is actually on.

The kids walked to the stage area, where they sang a song. ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ for the first class and ‘I’m a little teapot’ for the second. After singing the song, they played an instrumental (handbell) version. Some shook their bells with vigor and enthusiasm. Some (my child!) completely forgot to play when it was their turn – which means there were some gaps in the ‘teapot’ song.

After the entertainment, each child was called to the stage individually. As they walked towards their teacher she made a couple of comments about the particular kid, before giving them their ‘diploma’. When it was our boy’s turn, she commented on how much she loved his smile; his infectious enthusiasm. And what a terrible sharer he was at the sand table. ‘Tis true. About one of his classmates, she said: ‘her favorite song is the Clean Up song…she doesn’t like to clean up, she just likes the song.’

With diploma in hand, G walked off the stage and back to his seat. Seconds later he bolted towards my seat in the audience. He handed me his ‘diploma’ and asked if he could take off his red cape ‘because it’s making me hot.’ Not sensing huge value in ordering him to return to the ceremony, we walked outside where he obligingly sat on a rock so I could take a couple of pictures. Then he removed his finery. When we walked back inside, graduation was over, and it was time for cake.

The poor wedding-singer guy, who’d been patiently waiting for more than an hour to play, started strumming his guitar. Singing ‘if you’re happy and you know it.’ I drank some Jello-like punch while a couple of moms joked about spiking their punch. I got a couple of pieces of cake for the boys and headed outside.

Until…next year?

The third trimester

Less than two months to go until the estimated arrival date for baby boy 3. Given my record of holding babies hostage in my uterus, I’m fully expecting it to be a week or two beyond that. But, even with the ‘extra time’ I’m finding it a little stressful that we haven’t fully resolved the name issue. And by ‘fully’ I mean our positions haven’t changed since I last posted on the matter. So, seeing as we haven’t arrived at any other acceptable alternatives, I’ve decided to name this one ‘goodness’ or, at least, ‘tranquility’ in hopes that it would be a self fulfilling prophesy. I don’t think this family can handle a 5th strong personality.

According to babycenter, Mr. Tranquil Goodness weighs over 3 lbs and is 16 inches long. Which already feels pretty big, frankly. And he’s only going to get (a lot) bigger. This time around, when I hit the 30 week mark, I wept silently that the end wasn’t really in sight. Two months to go – that’s a long time. That much I’ve learned from pregnancies 1 and 2.

I vividly recall being at a doctor’s appointment when I was pregnant with my oldest. ‘I only have 9 weeks to go,’ I breezily informed the grumpy physician. ‘That’s still a long time,’ he replied. And he was right. Especially when it turned out to be nearly 11 more weeks before the esteemed Mr. G graced us with his presence.

In an attempt to make up for some pregnant partner deficiencies, Jason has tried to be proactive on the name matter this week.

I mean, I wasn’t necessarily offended when he inferred I was 36 weeks along. Instead of 31. I know he knows when the baby’s due. It’s just that I figured by the 3rd time around he’d actually know the number of weeks in a typical pregnancy. And he still doesn’t.

And then he got an email from a soon to be first-time dad. Who spent a couple of sentences talking about all the nice things he was doing for his wife. I can’t recall exactly, but I’m pretty sure there were massages and ice/heat packs and foot rubs and a few other things. I guess the fact that none of those things is happening chez Johnson makes me low maintenance. Or.

So in an effort to rise to the occasion Jason’s taken it upon himself to resolve the name issue. ‘Let’s get this name thing figured out,’ he announced on Sunday night. He asked if my feelings towards our ‘back-up’ name had changed. They hadn’t. Not discernibly. ‘What about Randy, or Lance’ he suggested. This would be why our name discussions go nowhere. No offense to Randy Quaid or Lance Armstrong, but those just aren’t names that speak to me. And that’s putting it very nicely.

We turned to the name bible, and decided to utilize its randomized name generator tool. Perhaps not surprisingly, we didn’t fall in love with the likes of Dubrovnik or Havel. Then we searched names by ‘meaning’ using words like ‘goodness, wise, and kind.’ Our pitiful attempt to ensure baby three will be a mellow one. But alas there were no good names on those lists, either.

Periodically I’ll ask my oldest what he would like to name the baby. For a long time he’s been stuck on ‘Mats’, but the other night he came up with a new name: Bennett. When I reminded him that Bennett just so ‘happens’ to be the name of his cousin, he seemed nonplussed. ‘If we say Bennett, how will the babies know which one we’re calling,’ I inquired. ‘Well, we’ll know which one is ours,’ he explained. Duh. ‘Yeah, but they won’t know who we’re talking to,’ I tried to explain. Duh. When that explanation didn’t make the desired impression, I resorted to: ‘Your Auntie will be really mad if we name our baby Bennett too.’ Not to mention it would be kind of pathetic. He didn’t seem to care.

In lieu of other ‘right-sounding’ options, Jason came up with two strategies: name baby three ‘Jason’ and find a new name for himself. (Maybe Angus?) Or, take the Hen’s middle name – which we’ve always been fond of – and bestow it upon baby 3. And then give the Hen a new middle name. Alternatively, he suggested changing a letter in the Hen’s current middle name and giving THAT to boy 3. One boy named Jasper and the other Jesper?

Hand me down clothes is one thing, but hand me down names?

Gluttons for Punishment

Most people who’ve recently spent the better part of 70 hours in the confines of their vehicle, would make a point of it to stay out of their vehicle for a significant amount of time. They wouldn’t, say, pull into Calgary at 11pm on Monday, only to start talking about a Saturday roadtrip three days later. Because it would seem the wise thing to do – to give each family member a bit of time and space to heal from the resulting post traumatic stress disorder. I mean, the Hen is still hoarse from all his screaming on those last couple of days. Not that it has deterred him from continuing to exercise his lungs this week.

But I’m not married to ‘most people’. So I wasn’t exactly surprised when my better half started talking about ‘taking a drive’ on Saturday. Maybe to go see some wildflowers. The thing is, a good portion of our possessions are still nestled in boxes and may not see the light of day this calendar year. Things like our maps and travel guides. So, on Saturday morning, when Jason asked ‘where are our maps’ I knew we were headed for trouble. Of course, said items didn’t appear, not even after halfheartedly digging through a couple of opened boxes.

He looked online for information about a wildflower festival that he’d heard about on the radio. It was a 3 and a half hour drive from Calgary, to this Waterton Wildflower Festival. I couldn’t fathom anyone but Mr. Johnson had the mental fortitude to sit in the car that long, so soon after coming back from Indiana. Much as I personally would have liked to see those little wildflowers.

So we got in the car-van and started driving, to nowhere in particular. ‘I heard ‘22′ is pretty,’ Jason suggested. So we drove along 22, watching hundreds of bikers bike their little hearts and legs out, feeling fat and guilty every inch of the way. ‘Where exactly are we going,’ I asked our sweet driver. ‘I don’t know, I thought we’d just kind of drive and see what we could find,’ he replied. Not good.

Minutes later, our oldest son spoke up. ‘Where are we going…because I’m afraid this is going to be another long trip like when we went to Muncie yesterday.’ Bless his heart, and his incorrect usage of the word yesterday.

‘I don’t want anything for Father’s Day,’ Jason announced, ‘I just want a weekend to myself so I can drive without all you complainers,’ as he steered the car onto ‘549′ into the Kananaskis area. Where we drove, and drove, and drove and saw nothing of interest. Unless you consider middle-aged men riding around on ‘off-highway-vehicles’ an interesting sight, and fields of dandelions on the side of the road. ‘Are those the wildflowers you were talking about,’ I asked in a bemused voice.

Eventually we found a ‘trading post’ near McLean pond with bathroom facilities. So we stopped and pottied and snacked. The little man was fast asleep by that point, and our oldest got out of the van-car with his hammer in his hand. He was going ‘mountain’ climbing with a hammer – he’d brought it along expressly for that purpose. In his case it involved climbing onto one of the tiny rocks in the parking lot and hitting said rock a few times with his hammer. While eating a salami and cheese sandwich.

I consider it prophetic that his name literally means ‘mountain man’. Clearly we got it right.

After a nice stopover at Elbow Falls, and another potty break at the world’s slowest coffee shop in Bragg Creek, we headed home.

Until next time.

Happy Father’s Day J, if your penchant for aimless roadtrips is the worst thing your boys have to complain about, I’d say you’re doing alright.