One rainy late August afternoon, after the kids and I had just emerged from the public pool, hair dripping and that kind of relaxed-tired that you get after a good swim, I ran into an acquaintance of ours that just happened to have a daughter the same age as my oldest.
After all the niceties were out of the way, we had this conversation:
Aquaintance: So, have you thought about what high schools you are going to visit?
Me: Wha? Why would I visit high schools? You are clearly insane so please step away slowly from my children. (Okay, that wasn't exactly what I said)
Aquaintance: Well, next year around this time of year you have to register for high school, so you probably want to have an idea of where you want to put your child.
I stopped backing away, because that seemed to make sense. But coming from a place where you just enrolled your kid in the local high school, and where the quality of education was such that you could do that without much hesitation, I had never thought of researching high schools the way one would research Cegep or University.
Me: Shit. (and this, in front of the children). Oldest child, did you know about this?
Oldest child: I was thinking of the Theatre school.
Me: We should do some research when we get home.
Oldest child: Can I do it?
Me: Sure. Make a list.
Acquaintance: Okay, I have wreaked my havoc in your brain now. I am going to go and try to see when swimming lessons registrations are. (and lo and behold, this same lovely acquaintance was the one ahead of me in that registration debacle.)
So my daughter researched schools. I researched schools. I talked to other parents who were cleearly more on the ball than me about this and usurped their list of schools. But all in all, we only visited 3, including the school I work at. I think in our minds we are all decided on one particular one, however, you have to audition to get in and have good enough grades to hack the extra curriculum (it is a theatre school- like her father, she is interested in the production and design side of things). The school I work at was lovely, but even as a staff member I don't think I could afford it. The other school was academically strong but void of all colour, hygiene, and, weirdly enough, teachers. We all hated that one.
So here are some of the issues we have to face when our children reach high school age in Quebec:
1. Private vs. Public? (And apparently there is a big difference in quality.)
2. French public or English public? (And if you want to send your child to English Public you must get a certificate of eligibility which means that one parent has had to have been educated in English in Canada- we can get this, but it will be a pain the butt).
3. French private or English private? I work at an English private school so could get a discount, but even then, apparently the French private schools would still be cheaper. But do I want to send my daughter to private school? Also, there are entrance exams that your child must study for. Apparently, on average, a 6th grade kid applying to private school will write around 4 exams.
4. Regular public or Charter public? There is a whole range out there, with schools focussing on music, theatre, international programs, public schools with uniforms, etc.
Not to mention the fact that I am offended that this is so stressful. She is 10 years old for pete's sake! I feel like those crazy mothers in the Nanny Diaries who are prepping their five year olds to get into the right pre-schools. I feel like this is an instance of mass insanity. I was talking to a coworker who has two kids in private schools. She said that before each of them applied she spent the summer cramming with them, prepping for their entrance test. I so adamantly believe this is wrong on so many levels. It is draconian, and altogether american (no child left behind nightmare) to think that you can measure a child's worth for a test where they make books to show you how to take the test. My coworker's view is that she hates it, doesn't believe in it however, if she didn't do it, her children would suffer by not getting into the best schools and therefore...what? Doomed for failure for their whole life? Destined to be a paper hat wearing hot dog selling person? I think not.
So what will we do? I have no idea. Home school?
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Discipline, trust annd constant vigilance
I went to a special meeting for my daughter's class last night. After a year's hiatus from the school meeting hell I've decided that I can take it, that I am calmer, more mature. That I can deal with those bloody ^&&*%$^%$%#?! parents that just don't know when to shut up.
Okay, obviously, I have some work to do and much whiskey to consume before the calmness and the maturity actually sets in, but I am determined to be more present and at least get through these ordeals like the good little parental martyr I am.
But my goal for this post is not to complain yet again about school meetings, and the people who do not have the filter in their brain to know when they are talking too much and are wasting everybody's time. No sirree. You see, this was a special meeting, called only a week in advance. A crisis situation meeting.
The crisis? Discipline. Yes, apparently the children have been running amok since the beginning of the year. In a class of grade 3s and 4s, they are getting no work done, because there is a total disregard for teacher (and parental, as many parents come to volunteer at the school) authority.
They do not get ready when they are supposed to. They talk, read, pass notes when the teacher is giving them their instructions. They eat the ingredients for their science experiment and then come back with the "but you didn't tell me that wasn't allowed" defense. On a little more ominous tone, there is also a habit among the boys to proclaim everything stupid, from the work they have to do to the people they have to do it with.
On the whole, not earth shattering, gasp-worthy behaviour. However, it has come to such a pass that they are not getting the work done that they need to do in school. Which means, all the parents in the class were privvy to a nasty surprise the Monday before the meeting in the form of two bright yellow stickers in the agendas of our children saying that they had not finished all this work in class and that they now had to do it at home.
I completely freaked out when I saw those yellow stickers (not realising that the whole class had got them, I thought it was just my daughter pfaffing (is that how you spell it?) off. My daughter goofing around in class? Not doing her work? And let's be honest, in general being a poor ambassador for my parental skills? Unacceptable. Heads rolled. A river of blood streamed through our kitchen.
Well, okay. There was no blood but there was definitely tears and a lot of yelling. Especially since I had been asking said daughter from the beginning of the year if she had any homework. How were things going at school? Is everything okay? Is there anything I should sign? Yes, mom. Everything is fine, mom. There is nothing to sign mom. These are not the droids you're looking for mom.
The problem is, my daughter is more tight-lipped than a Tibetan Monk who has taken a vow of silence. She does not tell me anything. So I have no idea about what's going on until I get to one of these meetings and I hear the other parents talking.
Oh God. Am I just about to make a case for the school meeting? Stop me now. Please.
But it's true. I wouldn't know diddly squat if it weren't for those couple of excruciatingly enlightening hours spent hungry and crammed into my daughter's desk on a Thursday night.
So here are the problems as I see it:
1. How can I get my daughter to actually tell me things without resorting to Bush-like persuasion techniques?
2. How can I trust my daughter to tell me what is really going on? And here I have a bit of a revelation. I can't! That seems harsh, but she has never proven to me that she is responsible enough to do her homework without me looking over her shoulders. We have tried it and it has failed, so now we are going to the Napoleonic code- guilty until proven innocent! Vive la France! She must now prove to me her worthiness. Those are indeed not the droids I am looking for, missy.
3. On a more philosophical note, are our children more unruly these days then they were in our days? Are our lenient, discuss everything reasonably, no yelling at any cost theories inuring our children to adult authority? And if so, is that a good or a bad thing? Talk amongst yourselves...because I sure as hell don't know.
4. Is it the teacher's job to instill values of respect and consideration in our children, or should this be coming from us so that it can manifest outside of the home? Strike that from the record judge- leading the witness. Obviously, I feel like it should be coming from the home. If my daughter is showing such lack of respect I want to to know about it. I want to take steps so that it does not re-occur. And no, I do not mean waterboarding, Mr. Bush.
5. Why can't people formulate their thoughts before they begin spouting inane nonsense? Why do people have to waste everybody's time by proclaiming on topics they know nothing about? Why, in short, are people so stupid and selfish? Don't they have homes to go to? People to feed? Places to drown? They obviously didn't get the memo that TIME IS MONEY. Or at least as scarce. Sorry. I couldn't help myself...Post meeting syndrome- it makes me susceptible to sudden fits of rage...
Anyway, lost of questions no answers and a whole lot of rambling. Two things are for sure though: there is now a lock-down on my youngest and I still really hate school meetings.
Um, the end?
Okay, obviously, I have some work to do and much whiskey to consume before the calmness and the maturity actually sets in, but I am determined to be more present and at least get through these ordeals like the good little parental martyr I am.
But my goal for this post is not to complain yet again about school meetings, and the people who do not have the filter in their brain to know when they are talking too much and are wasting everybody's time. No sirree. You see, this was a special meeting, called only a week in advance. A crisis situation meeting.
The crisis? Discipline. Yes, apparently the children have been running amok since the beginning of the year. In a class of grade 3s and 4s, they are getting no work done, because there is a total disregard for teacher (and parental, as many parents come to volunteer at the school) authority.
They do not get ready when they are supposed to. They talk, read, pass notes when the teacher is giving them their instructions. They eat the ingredients for their science experiment and then come back with the "but you didn't tell me that wasn't allowed" defense. On a little more ominous tone, there is also a habit among the boys to proclaim everything stupid, from the work they have to do to the people they have to do it with.
On the whole, not earth shattering, gasp-worthy behaviour. However, it has come to such a pass that they are not getting the work done that they need to do in school. Which means, all the parents in the class were privvy to a nasty surprise the Monday before the meeting in the form of two bright yellow stickers in the agendas of our children saying that they had not finished all this work in class and that they now had to do it at home.
I completely freaked out when I saw those yellow stickers (not realising that the whole class had got them, I thought it was just my daughter pfaffing (is that how you spell it?) off. My daughter goofing around in class? Not doing her work? And let's be honest, in general being a poor ambassador for my parental skills? Unacceptable. Heads rolled. A river of blood streamed through our kitchen.
Well, okay. There was no blood but there was definitely tears and a lot of yelling. Especially since I had been asking said daughter from the beginning of the year if she had any homework. How were things going at school? Is everything okay? Is there anything I should sign? Yes, mom. Everything is fine, mom. There is nothing to sign mom. These are not the droids you're looking for mom.
The problem is, my daughter is more tight-lipped than a Tibetan Monk who has taken a vow of silence. She does not tell me anything. So I have no idea about what's going on until I get to one of these meetings and I hear the other parents talking.
Oh God. Am I just about to make a case for the school meeting? Stop me now. Please.
But it's true. I wouldn't know diddly squat if it weren't for those couple of excruciatingly enlightening hours spent hungry and crammed into my daughter's desk on a Thursday night.
So here are the problems as I see it:
1. How can I get my daughter to actually tell me things without resorting to Bush-like persuasion techniques?
2. How can I trust my daughter to tell me what is really going on? And here I have a bit of a revelation. I can't! That seems harsh, but she has never proven to me that she is responsible enough to do her homework without me looking over her shoulders. We have tried it and it has failed, so now we are going to the Napoleonic code- guilty until proven innocent! Vive la France! She must now prove to me her worthiness. Those are indeed not the droids I am looking for, missy.
3. On a more philosophical note, are our children more unruly these days then they were in our days? Are our lenient, discuss everything reasonably, no yelling at any cost theories inuring our children to adult authority? And if so, is that a good or a bad thing? Talk amongst yourselves...because I sure as hell don't know.
4. Is it the teacher's job to instill values of respect and consideration in our children, or should this be coming from us so that it can manifest outside of the home? Strike that from the record judge- leading the witness. Obviously, I feel like it should be coming from the home. If my daughter is showing such lack of respect I want to to know about it. I want to take steps so that it does not re-occur. And no, I do not mean waterboarding, Mr. Bush.
5. Why can't people formulate their thoughts before they begin spouting inane nonsense? Why do people have to waste everybody's time by proclaiming on topics they know nothing about? Why, in short, are people so stupid and selfish? Don't they have homes to go to? People to feed? Places to drown? They obviously didn't get the memo that TIME IS MONEY. Or at least as scarce. Sorry. I couldn't help myself...Post meeting syndrome- it makes me susceptible to sudden fits of rage...
Anyway, lost of questions no answers and a whole lot of rambling. Two things are for sure though: there is now a lock-down on my youngest and I still really hate school meetings.
Um, the end?
Monday, October 5, 2009
Filters: the difference between cool and uncool?
When I was in third grade, there was this kid named Maurice. Maurice had a habit of picking his nose and eating it and not caring who witnessed his indulgence in a little self-produced snack. To him, it was like scratching his head or yawning. He had this silly grin on his face that made him look perpetually benighted and even when the other kids were mean to him, he didn't seem to pick up on it. He didn't notice the little signs that people were disgusted with his behavior or the smirks and the dirty looks when people were mean to him. An idealist at an early age, this pissed me off. I tried to be friends with poor Maurice, but he was so exasperating. I mean, how long can you stand watching someone pull big boogers out of his nose? He was also bad at jumping in and playing games- he didn't know how to do not exactly what he wanted to do.
I sometimes wonder what happened to Maurice. Maybe he finally clued into the world around him and became more aware of all the millions of cues we get from people around us that our behaviour is taboo. Maybe not. Maybe he is still happily picking his nose and making model airplanes in his parents' basement. I wouldn't know because I remember distinctly giving up on trying to be his friend.I wasn't mean to him, but I stayed away. Mainly because he irritated me so much that I was in danger of being mean to him.
Which leads me to wonder, why do some of us get the memo about all these social niceties and others don't? The reason I bring this up is because I just read a YA book called Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. It is about a homeschooled girl who decides to go to high school in Grade ten. She wears long pioneer dresses, totes a ukelele and bursts into spontaneous song in the cafeteria. She didn't get the memo that she made people deeply uncomfortable. In fact, the reason I am going on and on about this is because this kind of behaviour would make me deeply uncomfortable. She would troll the cafeteria until she scoped the person whose birthday it was and sing happy birthday to them. All this was odd yet forgivable until she became a cheerleader and started cheering for everything including the other team. Then the school blamed her for the loss of the game and she was subject to a public shunning. There is a part in the book though where her boyfriend (who happens to be the narrator), is trying to make her more normal partly for her own sake but mainly for his. She has to ask him what normal kids do and how to behave. What do kids eat? What do they wear? Is she laughing to loud?
How come some people don't know this? And then I had a talk with one of my colleagues and she mentioned this type of learning disability that is characterized by this- it's called non-verbal learning disorder (they do have a name for everything). Basically it is a disorder that is characterized by the gap between high verbal skills and low social, spatial, and non-verbal communication skills.
So I guess there is a scientific explanation for being "uncool". I'm glad. I think we all should go around with cheat sheets with facial expressions on them and whip them out when we aren't quite sure what someone is communicating to us. Laminated pocket facial expression cheat sheets. The world would be a better place, I tell you...
I sometimes wonder what happened to Maurice. Maybe he finally clued into the world around him and became more aware of all the millions of cues we get from people around us that our behaviour is taboo. Maybe not. Maybe he is still happily picking his nose and making model airplanes in his parents' basement. I wouldn't know because I remember distinctly giving up on trying to be his friend.I wasn't mean to him, but I stayed away. Mainly because he irritated me so much that I was in danger of being mean to him.
Which leads me to wonder, why do some of us get the memo about all these social niceties and others don't? The reason I bring this up is because I just read a YA book called Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli. It is about a homeschooled girl who decides to go to high school in Grade ten. She wears long pioneer dresses, totes a ukelele and bursts into spontaneous song in the cafeteria. She didn't get the memo that she made people deeply uncomfortable. In fact, the reason I am going on and on about this is because this kind of behaviour would make me deeply uncomfortable. She would troll the cafeteria until she scoped the person whose birthday it was and sing happy birthday to them. All this was odd yet forgivable until she became a cheerleader and started cheering for everything including the other team. Then the school blamed her for the loss of the game and she was subject to a public shunning. There is a part in the book though where her boyfriend (who happens to be the narrator), is trying to make her more normal partly for her own sake but mainly for his. She has to ask him what normal kids do and how to behave. What do kids eat? What do they wear? Is she laughing to loud?
How come some people don't know this? And then I had a talk with one of my colleagues and she mentioned this type of learning disability that is characterized by this- it's called non-verbal learning disorder (they do have a name for everything). Basically it is a disorder that is characterized by the gap between high verbal skills and low social, spatial, and non-verbal communication skills.
So I guess there is a scientific explanation for being "uncool". I'm glad. I think we all should go around with cheat sheets with facial expressions on them and whip them out when we aren't quite sure what someone is communicating to us. Laminated pocket facial expression cheat sheets. The world would be a better place, I tell you...
Friday, September 25, 2009
Getting off the fence
Being a parent means that you have to get off that comfortable picket fence (the one with the white pickets impaling your ass) and choose a side. It starts as soon as you are pregnant.Doctor or midwife? Breast milk or formula? Cloth or disposable? Then, when they are babies and toddlers you have to decide (okay let's be honest- sometimes your kid decides for you.) Do they sleep in the parental bed or in their own crib? Soother or no soother? These all-important issues are agonized over by most parents. They are discussed earnestly at playgroups and many of them are so controversial that fights rivaling the Israeli-Palestine situation break out in the parks around our nation and parents begin to form factions. It gets ugly, I tell you.
Now, as my kids get older, the decisions are still hard, still explosive. Do I let them decide what they want to wear? Do I let them come home from school alone (we already know where I stand on that one)? Do I act like a helicopter and hover over them while they do their homework? Should I force them to practice the piano even though it might be kill any love of music in them?
That picket fence is looking like an overstuffed LA-Z Boy chair right now.
The reason I am writing this is because of this last question. Piano practicing. My mother was one of those who stood very firmly on the side of the fence where you will do it because I say so. In fact, she built a little garden on that side of the fence and embellished it with more little rules like- not only will you practice everyday, but you will do it before school. Which meant that I got up at 6 am everyday to practice my piano. Of course, being a single mother and needing her run- she would always be out when we practiced. And she didn't know how to play the piano, so my sisters and I tended to cheat quite a bit.
I swore I would never do that to my own kids. Yeah. Famous last words. Because the more I think about it, the more my adult brain takes over with pesky logic. Do I hate music? No. Am I scarred for life for having to get up so early to practice my piano? Um, no. In fact, getting up early means that I tend to get more done in a day. Am I grateful that I can read music? Adamantly so. It even helped me get a job once.
I have no illusions about my kids being virtuosos. Their enthusiasm is lukewarm at best when it comes to playing the piano and many times it comes to tears of frustration as they struggle to pick their way through a song. And yet, I am not willing for them to give it up. There are so few things in their life where they have to persist even when the going gets tough and so few things that will be as rewarding as being able to make beautiful music. I want them to know how it feels to work hard at something, to be persistent. I want them to know how to soldier on through the hard bits. So I am jumping off the fence, and standing beside my mother on this one. Perhaps I will also grow a garden with nice little Fascist rules sprouting all over the place.
Now, if only I could get the slivers of doubt out of my rear end...
Now, as my kids get older, the decisions are still hard, still explosive. Do I let them decide what they want to wear? Do I let them come home from school alone (we already know where I stand on that one)? Do I act like a helicopter and hover over them while they do their homework? Should I force them to practice the piano even though it might be kill any love of music in them?
That picket fence is looking like an overstuffed LA-Z Boy chair right now.
The reason I am writing this is because of this last question. Piano practicing. My mother was one of those who stood very firmly on the side of the fence where you will do it because I say so. In fact, she built a little garden on that side of the fence and embellished it with more little rules like- not only will you practice everyday, but you will do it before school. Which meant that I got up at 6 am everyday to practice my piano. Of course, being a single mother and needing her run- she would always be out when we practiced. And she didn't know how to play the piano, so my sisters and I tended to cheat quite a bit.
I swore I would never do that to my own kids. Yeah. Famous last words. Because the more I think about it, the more my adult brain takes over with pesky logic. Do I hate music? No. Am I scarred for life for having to get up so early to practice my piano? Um, no. In fact, getting up early means that I tend to get more done in a day. Am I grateful that I can read music? Adamantly so. It even helped me get a job once.
I have no illusions about my kids being virtuosos. Their enthusiasm is lukewarm at best when it comes to playing the piano and many times it comes to tears of frustration as they struggle to pick their way through a song. And yet, I am not willing for them to give it up. There are so few things in their life where they have to persist even when the going gets tough and so few things that will be as rewarding as being able to make beautiful music. I want them to know how it feels to work hard at something, to be persistent. I want them to know how to soldier on through the hard bits. So I am jumping off the fence, and standing beside my mother on this one. Perhaps I will also grow a garden with nice little Fascist rules sprouting all over the place.
Now, if only I could get the slivers of doubt out of my rear end...
Friday, September 18, 2009
Free the children! Let them come home alone
We thought about it all last year. It is possible. I am sure they could do it. But a vague sense of fear and trepidation held us back. But what if...no matter that we couldn't finish the sentence. It was still beyond the realm of possibility. The anxiety of parental backlash alone was enough to end the conversation.
But then, this summer, we did a dry run. And, lo and behold, it was not only possible for them, but easy. Am I talking about brain surgery? Finding the cure for cancer? Making a five star gourmet meal for a party of 20? No. I am talking about letting them take the metro home alone. Maybe not brain surgery, but in some ways, it becomes the equivalent of such in our poor parental brains. It is hard to think that our kids can survive for one second without our taking them by the hand and leading the way, although that is exactly what we want for them. Strong, independent kids who can think for themselves. Unfortunately, we forget that doing everything for them tends to erode that kind of independent thinking.
So, one day before school started, my two girls set out on a mission. The mission was to take the metro to the stop by their school, get a treat at the depanneur (Quebecois for convenient store) right beside the school, and take the metro back. They were armed with their metro cards, some money and memorized phone numbers for our cell phones as well as a map of the metro.
The first thing they did was to get lost. They took the wrong metro. Did we receive a panic phonecall? No. They realised their mistake, got off, took the metro in the other direction, and were fine.
So last week, on the second week of school, we started letting them come home alone. They need to take two metro lines and it takes them about 40 minutes. They have their own keys to the house and they call us as soon as they get in. Usually, it is a bored voice on the other end, "Hi? Mom? We're here. Bye." Like it is no big deal that they just reached a level of independence that is making my head swim. Like this sort of thing happens everyday and I should just chill out.
As for parental backlash? The only comment I have had so far is a message from a woman who lives in our neighborhood and who I call Nervous Nelly- you know the type- single, working mother, frazzled, trying to do her best with her kid but who worries about every single detail. You know, the one in the parent teacher meetings that won't shut up, even though we've all been there for 2 hours and the whiskey is begging for an audience. Anyway, I get this phone message saying, " My son saw the girls on the metro the other day. Do they come home alone? Because N. has started taking the metro alone too! I think it's great! But he's a little nervous about it so maybe they can home together one day?"
So much for parental backlash. I guess it just goes to show you that we were all thinking the same thing but too afraid to say anything. Our kids have more independence, feel more confident and have a sense of accomplishment. We have more time, less travelling and smaller gas bills. I don't know about you, but I am pretty much feeling that this is a win win situation. So Free the children! And by proxy, free yourselves!
But then, this summer, we did a dry run. And, lo and behold, it was not only possible for them, but easy. Am I talking about brain surgery? Finding the cure for cancer? Making a five star gourmet meal for a party of 20? No. I am talking about letting them take the metro home alone. Maybe not brain surgery, but in some ways, it becomes the equivalent of such in our poor parental brains. It is hard to think that our kids can survive for one second without our taking them by the hand and leading the way, although that is exactly what we want for them. Strong, independent kids who can think for themselves. Unfortunately, we forget that doing everything for them tends to erode that kind of independent thinking.
So, one day before school started, my two girls set out on a mission. The mission was to take the metro to the stop by their school, get a treat at the depanneur (Quebecois for convenient store) right beside the school, and take the metro back. They were armed with their metro cards, some money and memorized phone numbers for our cell phones as well as a map of the metro.
The first thing they did was to get lost. They took the wrong metro. Did we receive a panic phonecall? No. They realised their mistake, got off, took the metro in the other direction, and were fine.
So last week, on the second week of school, we started letting them come home alone. They need to take two metro lines and it takes them about 40 minutes. They have their own keys to the house and they call us as soon as they get in. Usually, it is a bored voice on the other end, "Hi? Mom? We're here. Bye." Like it is no big deal that they just reached a level of independence that is making my head swim. Like this sort of thing happens everyday and I should just chill out.
As for parental backlash? The only comment I have had so far is a message from a woman who lives in our neighborhood and who I call Nervous Nelly- you know the type- single, working mother, frazzled, trying to do her best with her kid but who worries about every single detail. You know, the one in the parent teacher meetings that won't shut up, even though we've all been there for 2 hours and the whiskey is begging for an audience. Anyway, I get this phone message saying, " My son saw the girls on the metro the other day. Do they come home alone? Because N. has started taking the metro alone too! I think it's great! But he's a little nervous about it so maybe they can home together one day?"
So much for parental backlash. I guess it just goes to show you that we were all thinking the same thing but too afraid to say anything. Our kids have more independence, feel more confident and have a sense of accomplishment. We have more time, less travelling and smaller gas bills. I don't know about you, but I am pretty much feeling that this is a win win situation. So Free the children! And by proxy, free yourselves!
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
How long does it take to register your child in swimming lessons?
Well, if you live in Montreal and like to make things over the top stupid complicated, 3 hours. Yep. 3 hours. In a registration period that was only supposed to last 2 hours.
But let's start at the beginning shall we? Every year, all of Montreal's public swimming pools shut down at the same time. After labour day you would think, wouldn't you? Well, you would think wrong. In fact, their last day of business was Saturday August 22nd, right when we were actually getting some good weather. They close down in order to do some mysterious maintenance, which I am sure we are all grateful for. But how about in the fall- when it's too cold to go swimming but it hasn't snowed yet? And for the indoor pools, what does it matter?
Okay. So they close down for a period of almost a month. But they open for 2 nights in September in order to take registration for all the classes for the fall session. The times? September 8th and 9th from 6- 8 pm. So I know the drill- I mark the date on my calendar try very hard to find a schedule in advance so I can be prepared when I get to the registration booth and make it go smoothly.
I arrive at around ten to six to find a huge line-up out of the door. Now this is the first year where I have actually had to wait outside and my heart sinks. I phone home and tell them not to wait for me for supper. The doors open and a few people are let in. An hour goes by, and I have barely entered the threshold. What is taking so long? Finally I see someone I know, who shows me her number- 47. She tells me they just called 17. I don't even have a number yet.
I start rubbing my eyes and my face in an attempt to wipe the annoyance away. I resist the urge to yell at the pimply faced lifeguard who is standing in front of me twirling her hair waiting for permission to finally give me a number and let me in. She finally lets me in. Number 55.
I think to myself, I picked a bad day to quit drinking.
In the room are a bunch of parents looking just as angry and irritated as I feel. The kids are running around like crazy and because it is a pool their yells echo throughout the hall. They are calling number 33. I talk to my friend a bit. She gets her mom to come and pick up her kids who've been waiting outside for the last hour and a half. Her turn finally comes at around 8pm. She goes and then comes back to tell me that this is just the first line up, we then have to line up to pick the courses.
In order to not start screaming and yelling, I am now shutting off the parts of my brain that require logic and reason to function. Because they just can't handle the absurdity of it all. Luckily I have a book, but I can't read it as I have to pay attention to what number they are at- you see, the teenage girl got distracted and is no longer calling out the numbers. You just have to be aware of what number the woman is serving and jump up when it is your turn.
Finally number 54 with 4 small kids in tow leaves in a huge huff- apparently she didn't need to wait for 2 hours and nobody told her. I take my place at the desk, the woman looks at my daughters' names, checks that they are in the system, writes down a number and sends me to the next line. 2 and a half hours just to check that my daughters were in the system. At this point, Ghandi would be proud of me. I have successfully trapped the yelling me inside my brain and am putting on a calm exterior. So a few swear words escaped my mouth as I walked by the third line? Ghandi wouldn't care, would he?
I make it to the second line and #54 is bouncing her 8 month old on her hip while her 4 year old is running around screaming. She is trying to pick the course for her 4 children however, it is so late, all the ones she wanted are now taken. She is getting more and more frustrated. The baby is starting to cry. Finally they come up with some times. I hear something about 8 am on a Saturday. I am glad I am not her.
My time comes. I bark out my times, she gives me a laminated card with two stickers and tells me to wait in the third and final line. The whole process takes 30 seconds. I, once again, resist the urge to pull my hair out.
The final line. About 30 minutes all told. I read my book, because now there are no numbers. I have to just wait my turn. The baby of #54 has finally fallen asleep, but the 4 year old is still screaming. It is finally time to pay. But I can't hear what the clerk is saying due to the obnoxious yelling of kids. That's it. I have had it. I turn to the kids, and tell them to quiet down. I don't look to see whether the mother is upset at me. I don't care. I just want to hear what the clerk is telling me so that I can get the hell out of there.
The debit card has been passed, I have my receipts and I escape into the dark, fresh night. Now, after a nine and a half hour day of work, don't you like to go wait in line for 3 hours?
I think there may be a letter to the burrough in this...
But let's start at the beginning shall we? Every year, all of Montreal's public swimming pools shut down at the same time. After labour day you would think, wouldn't you? Well, you would think wrong. In fact, their last day of business was Saturday August 22nd, right when we were actually getting some good weather. They close down in order to do some mysterious maintenance, which I am sure we are all grateful for. But how about in the fall- when it's too cold to go swimming but it hasn't snowed yet? And for the indoor pools, what does it matter?
Okay. So they close down for a period of almost a month. But they open for 2 nights in September in order to take registration for all the classes for the fall session. The times? September 8th and 9th from 6- 8 pm. So I know the drill- I mark the date on my calendar try very hard to find a schedule in advance so I can be prepared when I get to the registration booth and make it go smoothly.
I arrive at around ten to six to find a huge line-up out of the door. Now this is the first year where I have actually had to wait outside and my heart sinks. I phone home and tell them not to wait for me for supper. The doors open and a few people are let in. An hour goes by, and I have barely entered the threshold. What is taking so long? Finally I see someone I know, who shows me her number- 47. She tells me they just called 17. I don't even have a number yet.
I start rubbing my eyes and my face in an attempt to wipe the annoyance away. I resist the urge to yell at the pimply faced lifeguard who is standing in front of me twirling her hair waiting for permission to finally give me a number and let me in. She finally lets me in. Number 55.
I think to myself, I picked a bad day to quit drinking.
In the room are a bunch of parents looking just as angry and irritated as I feel. The kids are running around like crazy and because it is a pool their yells echo throughout the hall. They are calling number 33. I talk to my friend a bit. She gets her mom to come and pick up her kids who've been waiting outside for the last hour and a half. Her turn finally comes at around 8pm. She goes and then comes back to tell me that this is just the first line up, we then have to line up to pick the courses.
In order to not start screaming and yelling, I am now shutting off the parts of my brain that require logic and reason to function. Because they just can't handle the absurdity of it all. Luckily I have a book, but I can't read it as I have to pay attention to what number they are at- you see, the teenage girl got distracted and is no longer calling out the numbers. You just have to be aware of what number the woman is serving and jump up when it is your turn.
Finally number 54 with 4 small kids in tow leaves in a huge huff- apparently she didn't need to wait for 2 hours and nobody told her. I take my place at the desk, the woman looks at my daughters' names, checks that they are in the system, writes down a number and sends me to the next line. 2 and a half hours just to check that my daughters were in the system. At this point, Ghandi would be proud of me. I have successfully trapped the yelling me inside my brain and am putting on a calm exterior. So a few swear words escaped my mouth as I walked by the third line? Ghandi wouldn't care, would he?
I make it to the second line and #54 is bouncing her 8 month old on her hip while her 4 year old is running around screaming. She is trying to pick the course for her 4 children however, it is so late, all the ones she wanted are now taken. She is getting more and more frustrated. The baby is starting to cry. Finally they come up with some times. I hear something about 8 am on a Saturday. I am glad I am not her.
My time comes. I bark out my times, she gives me a laminated card with two stickers and tells me to wait in the third and final line. The whole process takes 30 seconds. I, once again, resist the urge to pull my hair out.
The final line. About 30 minutes all told. I read my book, because now there are no numbers. I have to just wait my turn. The baby of #54 has finally fallen asleep, but the 4 year old is still screaming. It is finally time to pay. But I can't hear what the clerk is saying due to the obnoxious yelling of kids. That's it. I have had it. I turn to the kids, and tell them to quiet down. I don't look to see whether the mother is upset at me. I don't care. I just want to hear what the clerk is telling me so that I can get the hell out of there.
The debit card has been passed, I have my receipts and I escape into the dark, fresh night. Now, after a nine and a half hour day of work, don't you like to go wait in line for 3 hours?
I think there may be a letter to the burrough in this...
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Ten Going on 20: experiencing the tween years
My head is spinning. No. More like a hive of bees have decided to take up residence inside my brain. Because, as you will know if you read this blog, I have got a 10 year old who seems to have grown up over night.
Symptoms include:
And it's also true that the dilemmas are getting more complicated. Last Sunday, I ran into an acquaintance who has a daughter the same age. She mentioned that she was going to start going to the open houses this fall for high school as registration begins next fall and we need to know where to apply. The moment we got home, my daughter started looking up schools that might interest her. We now have a list of places we need to visit this in order to decide where she will be going to school in two years. High School. I shudder at the thought.
All this to say, that everything is fine and the way it has always been. She is good, going about her daily life, still interested in playing ball with me. But like everything everyday, the breeze of change is still shifting things forward and I have a feeling it will turn into a full fledged wind soon.
Symptoms include:
- fashionable clothes, (actually, now that I think about it- the fashionable clothes are not too far away from what I was wearing at that age: leggings with long shirts, flat shoes. Okay, there is a lot less neon or fake, paint splashy clothes, but besides that, just the same.)
- an obsession with hair and accessories (she was showing me the earrings she was going to wear to camp today),
- and increased annoyance with her little sister (my girls who hardly ever fight, are, gasp, snipping at each other.)
- an increased need for privacy
- much more time NOT being entertained by lowly parents
- more time reading and ignoring us.
And it's also true that the dilemmas are getting more complicated. Last Sunday, I ran into an acquaintance who has a daughter the same age. She mentioned that she was going to start going to the open houses this fall for high school as registration begins next fall and we need to know where to apply. The moment we got home, my daughter started looking up schools that might interest her. We now have a list of places we need to visit this in order to decide where she will be going to school in two years. High School. I shudder at the thought.
All this to say, that everything is fine and the way it has always been. She is good, going about her daily life, still interested in playing ball with me. But like everything everyday, the breeze of change is still shifting things forward and I have a feeling it will turn into a full fledged wind soon.
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