Those bad things in your head

Tonight at dinner, while each of us talked in our typical overlapping-everyone-talking-at-once style, I mentioned that I had not seen the notice that the school said they sent home about road safety around Sophie's School. Sophie quickly responded (at a pitch that I am convinced our good friends in West Van can hear) that the school probably didn't send the note home with the younger kids and only with the older ones who had "those bad things starting in their heads". Huh??? There was a pause in the action while everyone tried to figure out what Soph had just said. "Soph, what do you mean the older kids with the bad things in their heads? "you know Mama, the bad things that teenagers get in their heads - the things you told me about"....hummm...stumped on this one and clearly irritating Sophie by not remembering what I had told her.

"Maaa-maaa, the things that make teenagers crazy and make them do crazy things and not like their mummies and daddies"...OH, I remember now. "Soph, are you talking about hormones?". "Yes, that is what it is. You told me about those bad things that teenagers get in their heads that make them act crazy". "I did, you're right. But what does that have to do with you not getting a certain note from school about road safety?"

Logically - "Well, the school probably only gives the note to the older kids who are just starting to get their hormones and just starting to do bad and crazy things. You know, they would be the kids who need to know about road safety because they probably can't think about that with all the hormones taking up all the room in their heads. The little kids like me know all about road safety so we don't need the note. That's why I didn't get it I guess." Right. Of course. Its all about the hormones.

32 and a half

That is how many more work days I have left in my 9 month contract - but I'm not really counting.

The end is in sight with my current position and though I would be the first to admit that it is not the right fit for me and it has been a rather challenging 6 months so far, I do know that I have learned plenty. All the better to take to my next "gig" - whatever that may be (I am hoping that with hands placed in front of me, in the shape of a bowl, "direction" will promptly be poured into them).

Here is some of what I have learned:

Commuting bites.
Skytrain travel smells.
Finding a new "business outfit" five days a week is hard.
Hand sanitizer is my best friend.
An effective and smart HR team is crucial and very beneficial.
People surprise me on a daily basis.
I am not 27 anymore.
Coffee after 12 noon makes me wiggy.
In-Design rules.
Databases are evil.
Gastown has great restuarants and stores.
Sephora is the best way to spend lunch when you take it.
Creativity and design are an essential part of my future career direction

ahh...not bad for the "contract girl"

HOME

Today, Thanksgiving Day, was exhausting. It is drawing to an end for me as I know that I can't keep my eyes propped open much longer than it is going to take to write this post. It was a good day but a tiring one. The girls were at each other most of the day - arguing, fighting, yelling, crying - the works. At this point you might be asking " Where is she going with this? (psstt...she must be really out of practice writing these posts! She hasn't done it in a while!). Well the direction I am going and the intention I have for this post is to talk about one of the things that I am and will always be very thankful for. I am thankful for HOME. There really isn't a word to me that is more enveloping. More comforting.

I love that people will use "home" to describe the physical building in which they live - or the town they grew up in - or, even the country that they came from. Home means everything. It is how many of us qualify ourselves. Define ourselves. Account for our style, our accent, our beliefs.

Last weekend, I made a last minute trip to my Dad's "home". By this, I mean the town in which he grew up. The town where my grandma, cousins, aunts and uncles still live. Their home.

I loved the threads, though long and almost invisible, that still connect my Dad to his home. The beautiful prairie fields of wheat. The groves of trees all red and gold. The prairie sky that is a blue like nowhere else. Being with my Dad, sharing his memories of home made me feel that warmth of knowing that I am fortunate enough to also have a home.

Our home, filled with chaos and noise and laundry and dishes and yelling and laughing and goofiness couldn't be anything more. It is a sanctuary - the place that protects and keeps the people I love the most safe and warm and contained. Tonight, when I told the girls that they were going to have a special picnic dinner for Thanksgiving with a special movie, they were overjoyed (this special treat is purely selfish as it allows me to sit and eat a meal with my family in peace!) - however, Sophie said to me "Mama, are we going to hold hands before dinner and pray for Thanksgiving? Because I don't want to miss that part". I, of course, said that I thought that this was a great idea and why didn't she and her sister have a prayer with the grown-ups and then head downstairs to watch their special show. This was agreeable. So, as we all sat down to a feast of food and wine, we all held hands and offered up what each of us was thankful for. As we went around the circle, and each person shared their thanks, what ran through my head over and over again was "I am so thankful to be home, surrounded by my family". Home. We should all be so fortunate.

smells funny

Today - Sophie's first day of "big girl school" (grade 1) - went off without a hitch. Thank you, thank you, thank you...

After the challenges we faced last year with Kindergarten, we were, admittedly, a little worried about how this day would unfold. Sophie appeared to feel quite comfortable with the idea of a new school, new friends and new teachers. I had been asking her for about 5 or 6 days if she was worried about anything and her answer was continually "no, mamma, I feel fine about school". Last night, the final night before the big day, as I was lying beside her, I asked her again "Soph, how are you feeling about tomorrow?".

Her answer was decidedly different this time. Her response was (and I quote) "I'm worried. I'm worried about the smell".

I had to think about this and I paused before responding. The smell? The smell of what? of whom? I could not imagine what she could be thinking about in her incredibly interesting brain. "Soph, what smell are you talking about?" - "The one you you said there was by the office.".

Ahh...of course. The smell by the office. Knowing Sophie and knowing that she does not miss ANYTHING, I tried to remember talking about her new school to someone and rather quickly remembered talking with her grandma about my visit to the school to register Sophie. I had been describing the smell as I entered the school and stood in the lobby. I am sure that Sophie heard me talking about "the smell" and that is what she remembered. What she didn't remember was that I went on talk about how the smell of the school reminded me of all the good things about school. It is that old school smell of old wooden floors, cleaners, chalk, books and children.

I finally responded to Sophie and said "Soph, are you thinking about what mummy was saying to grandma?" "Yes" she replied. "well, lovey, what I was telling grandma is that the smell is a wonderful, good smell and not a bad one". "Oh, really? that's good mamma because I wouldn't want to go there if there was a bad smell".

This is from the same child that didn't want to go to Sunday school when the room at the church was newly painted because she didn't like the new paint colour. It made her feel sick.

Ahhh....I love you Soph and I know you are going to shine in your new school with all of energy!

Departure

Sitting outside yesterday, eating my lunch and soaking in the surroundings of my busy, downtown work spot, I watched a young woman, in her mid-20's come rambling up the steps towards all the "corporate lunchers" and start yelling "please, someone, give me some money or give me some food". She was clearly unstable and likely homeless and addicted but I was uncomfortable and uneasy as I nibbled on my salad that suddenly didn't taste very good.

How do we decide who is deserving of our "help" and those that will just be ignored or passed by? In a city fraught with homeless people, binners, addicts, junkies etc, I know that many of us have become immune to the pleading and the begging and the intimidating that we face when walking through the city. I am sad that I too have become one of those people, dressed in my corporate gear, taking some time at lunch to wander up to Sephora, who has mastered the expression that tells the person crying for help that I cannot hear them and am not going to engage. How utterly horrible is that? When I write that I feel terrible. That I could be one of those people who ignore the person begging for help and tell myself "someone else will help them out".

I read in the paper this morning that a homeless man, who lay on a park bench for 5 hours in the heat, started having convulsions and was ignored by people walking by. By the time someone did help (by calling emergency services) it was too late. The man, unnamed, died. What would I have done, if I had seen this stranger, in his dirty clothes shaking uncontrollably?

It is my goal to be more aware of how I treat these people; think of these people; react to these people. My husband who generally won't hand out money but will buy a person food and a drink, once took a homeless man into MacDonalds, bought both himself and the man a meal and then sat at a table with the man to eat. Nothing was said. No one spoke, but two guys from two different worlds shared a meal. I would bet that sitting at a table, with another person, eating a meal was worth more to that man that we will ever know.

Tomorrow, inevitably, I will walk at lunch and will be approached by two or even three people who will ask for money. The challenge for me will be to see what gesture I can do to make a difference. Even a little.

Summer Love

When the weather couldn't be better and everyone is walking around looking like they have just overdosed on Vitamin "D", I can't help but think about everything that I personally love about the summer and then this leads me to make the very sincere pact that "I, Andrea Rathborne, do so solemnly swear, that I will never work, full-time through another summer". There. Written for all (three of you) to see and therefore set in stone.

Now, on to what I love about summer. In no particular order:

1) The smell of my children at the end of a good, sunny, hot day when their hair is warm and their skin is damp and their eyes are half-closed. They smell like the most delicious, baked coconut and sunshine bread.

2) The sound of the fan in the night when I wake up

3) The smell of a summer rain on the hot pavement

4) The crunchy grass under my bare, brown and earthy looking feet

5) The taste of berries right off the vine, plant, bush, tree...in all forms (in salads, sauces, galletes, jams, with cheese. I can't get enough berries.

6) The sounds of the crickets at night

7) The sound of waves outside a rustling tent that my whole family is asleep in

8) The sounds of gatherings. Friends, together, laughing, talking, sharing a story...

9) The warmth of my cat, Shirley, when she lies sleeping in a sunny spot

10) The squeals of my children as they run along the beach, collecting shells and splashing in the water

11) The satisfaction of filling a bowl with all kinds of veggies, grown in my very own garden

12) The anticipation and excitement as another weekend comes closer and our plans for another adventure start to fall into place


I could write endlessly on what I love about summer. Maybe I will just start here and then post again when I need a little reminder about how fortunate I am to live in this beautiful place.

Brass

Quick and to the point.

By this time each summer, my summer hair (which may have to be styled liked my very dear friend...you know who you are!) looks like a polished trombone. That's right. I have Brassy hair. I can admit it. The question is, what can I do about it that won't cost me a fortune. Well, I believe I have the answer and I am going to share.

In a bottle of your favourite shampoo (it should be neutral in colour) add a few drops of both red and blue food-colouring and mix. Add the right amount of each to make the shampoo turn into a brilliant shade of violet.

Wash your hair as you normally would but leave the shampoo on for a little bit longer before rinsing. Voila (no, not violet) brass is gone. really.