Proofing Assignment for Mom

Yesterday, my twenty-year-old asked me if I had time to proof the work report he had prepared for a university co-op course. He had been working at a prominent mobile apps company, helping make cool things happen on iPhones and other such devices for the past eight months. Since he had kept us fairly up to date as to what his projects involved, I figured I knew enough to have a go at the paper.

Delusional mother.

There comes a point in life when your children know far more than you will ever know. I suspect that this moment passed for me a long time ago, but because I happen to have fairly tactful children who would never rub in this sort of thing, I had been largely oblivious to this fact until yesterday.

I sat down at my computer and confidently opened the report file. I began to read. I sort of understood the title. Sort of.

“Developing Cross-Platform Mobile Economy Software.”

Not entirely sure about the “Mobile Economy” part but I figured I would forge ahead and sort it out by context, the way intelligent people approach challenging reading.

It got murkier.

There were several references to C++. This was, coincidentally, the grade I was feeling  that I would be lucky to achieve as a proofreader on this assignment.

There was mention of Android. Well, since seeing Star Wars in 1976, I associate this term with alien robots: more or less how I was beginning to view the people who would understand the paper my son had written. (But excluding my son, of course, because I love him and would never casually lump him in with your average bunch of alien robots.)

Following the Android references, there was a fair bit of talk about “bindings,” which I only understand in the context of ski equipment. No skis were mentioned although things were definitely going downhill for me at this point.

I did understand the prominent word, “code,” although I can’t feel too triumphant about that; I only recognized it as being the explanation for why I couldn’t understand this report one iota—it was obviously written in CODE. Duh.

Halfway through the paper, I was glad to see the word “Java”; at this juncture, I was more than ready for a large cup myself. Taking a break to put the coffee on, I pondered the term, “deadlock,” which had just surfaced. This, I was pretty sure, described my current relationship with this report.

I got my coffee and I persevered, proofing to the end as best I could, with all the good intentions of a diligent mom wanting to help out her kid. I’m pretty sure I corrected some dicey punctuation, and I did remove the forbidden passive voice here and there, but I fear my contribution was extremely limited.

I guess it’s just the way of evolution that this kind of thing should happen. It’s a weird feeling, though, to somehow pass the torch to your offspring (or realize they picked it up when you weren’t looking) and be left watching and wondering just how far they’ll run with it.

No matter where they end up, I know I’ll be somewhere in the distance cheering them on.

Chocolate Cruelty

It’s just cruel that stores are permitted to sell Hallowe’en candy in the month of August. I don’t remember this from when I was a kid; I am quite sure this is a new thing. And from a personal standpoint, it is a very bad thing.

If the box of 120 diminutive chocolate bars were not open, I might have the resolve to park the lot somewhere and leave it alone until October 31, when it is intended to be opened. BUT, I have children. Observant children who noted the presence of this box the second it came in from the car. My children are teenagers, in fact. Relatively respectful ones, actually, who would never just abscond with said box of goodies, but who absolutely WOULD and absolutely DID open this particular box, leaving it so tragically accessible to my hormonally-induced, chocolate-craving whimsy. Little do they realize what they have done.

Whereas they are constantly distracted and might just eat a couple of these Satanic confections then forget their existence, my thoughts will dwell on that box until it is empty.

This isn’t working for me.

I can see now that before September reaches its midpoint, this box will be decimated and my desk strewn shamefully with teeny tiny wrappers in many attractive colours. Evidence of my complete lack of self-control—obviously.

I could take the box out right now and dump it in the garbage, then purchase another on October 31, but that would be silly, wouldn’t it? Kind of extreme. And by the 31st, the stores might be all out of the good stuff.

I really don’t want to chance becoming known as The Lady Who Gives Out Crappy Candy on Hallowe’en. No, no…much better to stick with what I have and hope for the best.

I’ll just park the bathroom scale in the closet for a few weeks and add a few workouts to the daily regimen. That should about cover it, right?

I know I am not alone in my experience. I am considering starting up a twelve-step group for moms with chocolate issues right here in my neighbourhood. Let me know if you’d like to join us.

There will be snacks.

Monopoly Games…Our Style

Our family owns several games of Monopoly.™ The original was inherited when Granny cleaned out the basement. The “2000” version was a Christmas gift. “Simpsons” came along at a birthday party, as did “Shrek” a few years later. The kids love them all. I admit this abundance of Monopolies is utterly ridiculous, but each one is used and enjoyed more than you could possibly imagine.

As I write, our three most frequent participants are playing in the kitchen. Hubby, at this moment, is represented by Shrek himself. Kid #2 is Donkey, chosen appropriately, as he enjoys stream-of-consciousness rambling and varies the accent with which it is generally delivered. Kid #3 is Puss ‘n Boots: smaller than the others, but deceptively clever. Whichever version they play, they have favourite game pieces; it’s just tradition.

Each knows by memory the exact rents of every property on the board, with or without any number of houses or hotels. No need to read the cards, ever. I find this accurate storage of so much irrelevant detail more than a little disturbing.

For Father’s Day one year, the kids put Dad’s face into some cards of their own design and these were added to the set, to make the game just a little more interesting.

At our house, the game is always played on fast forward. Most people groan at the memory of the 4-hour games they endured in childhood, but these fanatics are always finished in under forty-five minutes. It’s not for the uninitiated, I’ll tell you that. Before any transaction is complete, the next roller has thrown the dice, moved, picked a card, and has his hands in the bank money. Probably also fetched a snack from the fridge. I’m sure the tempo of this, “Type ‘A’ Monopoly,” is a direct manifestation of our living in the Greater Toronto Area. I suspect that if we lived in a farming community, a fishing village by the sea, or anywhere in the Southern Hemisphere, no-one would even know how to rush this way. When I join in, I often feel like the slow cousin, not quite able to keep up with the tour. But I understand that the mad pace is part of the thrill, so I do my best to hustle along.

Quotes from The Simpsons fly in every direction, chosen for their exact appropriateness to the situation at hand. Stray lyrics from My Fair Lady, Michael Bublé, and now Oliver emanate from the kitchen. A Russian accent morphs into something like Hitler, and then Robin Williams playing Mrs. Doubtfire. The Irish Spring soap guy, a Kamikaze man…my people are crazy. And funny.

When I play, I am lovingly derided for my sympathetic nature. I admit that my tendency is to cut slack to the person who is losing…to forgive debt, offer cheap rates of rent, and even take hugs as payment on occasion. Okay, so I deserve what I get; I just can’t muster the Capitalist fervour the rest of them seem to summon at first sight of the game board. It’s not how they are at any other time in their lives. Maybe they’re getting all that money-grubbing competitive nastiness out of their systems so it doesn’t emerge in real life. Maybe there is a purpose to this madness!

A burp of magnificent proportion.  A bad British accent. A lisping Nazi. Nothing about this game—the way it’s played here— is politically correct. But it’s family entertainment. Parent/kid time. There’s no screen—nothing electronic. You can play during a power failure. You can include a friend, a neighbour, a significant other as the kids get older. It’s definitely a quick way to get to know people.

These games may be frantic, and completely off the wall, but they always allow for a lot of eccentric, uninhibited, fun time together. And I guess in our family, that’s a tradition worth keeping.

Cottage Weekend in Quebec, by the Numbers

6 ½-hours in van hurtling down the 401—voted “Least Scenic Road of All Time.” (By me.)

3-minutes between arrival at cottage and first person launching himself into the lake.

2-pool noodles brought along to provide swimming entertainment.

½-pool noodles remaining on dock at end of day one.

74-fish with compromised digestive tracts as a result of consuming hunks of purple pool noodle.

3-trips to Canadian Tire to buy hooks, lures, sinkers, and license for fishing.

17-heinous grammatical errors committed by Mom trying to say, “hooks, lures, sinkers, and license for fishing” in French. (Apparently this vocabulary is not covered in the grade 9 curriculum.)

23-fish down in the lake sporting ‘bling’ from enthusiastic fishing attempts.

5-eager hikers that set out to walk the Point Trail on day 2.

43-melodramatic comments made by youngest child during hike, including several repetitions of, “How much longer is it?” and, “I’m gonna die out here!”

43-enthusiastic cheerleading comments made by moms during hike.

27-black fly bites on Mom’s left leg after hike.

0-black fly bites on Mom’s right leg after hike. Really-what is up with that?!?

5-swims in the lake per person per day.

0-showers taken by people under the age of 14 over the course of 3 days.

3-very happy people under the age of 14, smelling a whole lot like fish.

999-pieces of jigsaw puzzle painstakingly assembled by 4 kids and 2 Moms.

1-piece of jigsaw puzzle omitted from box by puzzle factory worker with questionable sense of humour.

19-games of cards, backgammon, Scattergories,™ and Monopoly™ played by various participants.

6-cards and game pieces chewed and/or drooled upon by the dog.

4-rounds of “Kick the Can” played by absolutely everyone. Even the dog.

5-prisoners taken who participated in heartfelt rendition of, “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” while awaiting rescue.

2-moms who are going to pack camouflage-coloured t-shirts next time. Fuschia and orange: serious “fails” when playing hiding games in the Laurentian landscape.

3-kids asleep by the time we reach the top of the driveway, heading home Sunday night.

23-pieces of Tim Horton’s detritus found secreted away in van crevices the day after the trip.

1000-times we’d do it all over again.

Bra Shopping

Shopping for bras occupies a place near the very bottom of my “fun” list, somewhere between speaking with telemarketers and poking myself with a sharp stick. Whereas I have executed this errand many times in my life, my pre-teen daughter was new to the task. She hadn’t really given it much thought, quite frankly, until prompted by a rather candid discussion with her brother.

Of the five people who reside in my home, only one is blessed with a fashion sense that might be deemed “au courant” by the world at large. This is my middle son, who at 17, studies musical theatre and hangs out with divas, drama queens, and people who spend an inordinate amount of time looking at themselves in the mirror. From them, he has learned a great deal. A very generous brother, he has rather gently acknowledged that his sister is unlikely to receive decent advice about clothing from either of her parents, and he has spent quite a lot of time discussing fashion options with her, lest she be shunned at school for wearing the wrong colour, the wrong size, the wrong garment entirely…well, you get the point.

We recently took the kids for a celebratory evening out, and in preparation, my son disappeared for a half hour with his sister, lending advice on what to wear. When they emerged, he approached me purposefully and said, “Mom, you have GOT to buy Allie a bra that isn’t a sports bra! She can’t wear any of her cool clothes without this huge strap thing showing.” Noting the offending article dangling from his index finger, I was taken aback more than a little. I sputtered a quick assent. My own wardrobe included several varieties of support that one could wear for running, tennis, and yoga, but absolutely nothing one would wear under, let’s say, an evening gown. Not a strapless bra, not a camisole, not even any form of underwire apparatus lay in my drawer. Strangely enough, I’d never missed them. Determined to help my daughter avoid becoming a social pariah, I invited her to go shopping. In her naiveté, she looked forward to the trip; I tried to muster some enthusiasm.

We started at Sears’ lingerie department, and were utterly flummoxed. All around us, gigantic, purple, green, and floral print bras hung, the dimensions of which brought to mind Wagnerian sopranos and certain very endowed, very senior members of my grandmother’s golf club, whose topless presence in the ladies’ locker room back in the 60’s had left an indelible mark on my five year-old brain.

“Oh, my God,” said my extremely articulate daughter. I knew she was wondering, as I always had, whether we as a gender were meant to aspire to filling these immense contraptions. Or whether they might be our horrible reality one day. I guided her gently toward the younger patrons’ area. Glancing around, we remained baffled; white, simple, and small were nowhere to be seen. We decided to head to the mall.

After some searching, we discovered a promising boutique, seemingly geared toward younger consumers. A salesperson approached, and we explained what we needed. She went to work, holding up various bras to my daughter’s body, wrapping her arms around her, figuring out sizing. My daughter glued her eyes to mine over the woman’s shoulder, as if to say, “Are you kidding me? I just met this lady and she’s ALL OVER me!” I replied silently, giving her the look that said, “It’s okay, Honey. I am reasonably sure this woman isn’t a pervert. Hang in there.” She endured, and we headed for the change room.

Thankfully, the bras fit. We emerged, and were shown a drawer-full of choices— white, tan, and about 73 other models that you might expect to see in a window in Amsterdam. On a prostitute.

As the clerk dangled a bright red silk bra, trimmed with black lace, in front of my twelve year-old’s eyes, we hastily snatched white and tan and made a quick getaway before I could embarrass us both with a tirade about inappropriate marketing strategies waged upon naïve young girls, and the slutty clothing so many of them aspire to wear as a result.

Mission accomplished, we headed for ice cream. It occurred to me that this trip was a rite of passage for my daughter. A dubious welcome to the world of womanhood, but a welcome nonetheless. I felt very privileged to have been there with her. Because even under adverse circumstances like these, spending time with my daughter is right at the top of my list.