Yelling at the kids...My first Dad moment...

I was downstairs running and for a change, Izzy was not downstairs with me. I have known Isobel her entire life, I held her before anyone else save the doctors and nurses who pulled her out. She has seen me shirtless any number of times. When she was an infant and I was the only person she would nap with, I would occasionally be shirtless when we napped...
Isobel: "Daddy?"
Daddy: "Yes Plum Blossom?"
Isobel: "Were you just running?"
Daddy: "Yes ."
Isobel: "On the treadmill?"
Daddy: "..."
Isobel: "Daddy?"
Daddy: "Yes, my daughter?"
Isobel: "On the treadmill? Were you running on the treadmill?"
Daddy: "Yes Isobel. What's this all about? You know I run on the treadmill all the time. Why all the questions now?"
Isobel: "Daddy?"
Daddy: "Yes, Izzy?"
Isobel: "Daddy, you have a hell of a lot of tattoos."



The hardest part of being a parent is forgetting what it's like to be a kid...
I may rant a bit here so bear with me.
The Boy has ADHD. it's not something we have ever gone to any lengths to conceal nor is it something we have ever worn on our sleeves. It is what it is and it plays a role in who he is. It does not however, define him. He has his moments but what ten year old boy doesn't? It seems like we are constantly having to defend his behaviour because he has those four letters associated with him now.
I like many, had misconceptions about what the condition entails and I can say that there is definitely a difference between when he is on his meds and not, but (and this is an important but) it does not turn him into a complacent perfect angel of a boy. Good god if that were the case there would be a line of parents around the block of every drugstore in the world to lay hands on this miracle drug...my parents would have bought shares in the company based on the three of us kids alone...The difference is that when he is off his meds, he is a ten year old boy-amplified. When he is on them he is able to make sense of the tornado of information whipping around his head. It helps him put things into order and perspective. But on or of the meds, he is The Boy. He is bright and funny and charming and a pain in the ass and a joy to be around and a stubborn mule of a just like his mother and everything else that any other ten year old kid is. And like all ten year old kids, he will try your patience-that's their job.
We lost a sitter today, which in and of itself is not a big deal but it is the way she went out. It was not particularly classy... it was downright low rent. Without going into too many sordid details, we were informed that she was no longer going to watch The Boy but that Isobel was quite welcome to come over. I can't help but feel that her decision is based wholly on in part on those four letters. I am flattered that Isobel has made such an impression as to be quite welcome but she is a package deal. Izzy herself told me she wasn't ' going anywhere without The Boy.'
Some accusations were made where I had to bite my tongue as the incidents were recounted to me by the baby sitter. The Boy is no angel but the things that he was accused of were so completely out of character for him that I have to call bullshit on all of it. I have know him for half of his life and he is a lot of things but The Boy is not a violent or vindictive kid. Not by any stretch. Nor is he any more aggressive than any other ten year old boy involved in a contact activity.
I get it, he can be a handful and he can try your patience. And you can lose your patience and say and do things you regret...I know. There are a couple of major differences however. By virtue of testosterone and a thickening of my vocal chords my voice tends to have a timbre that inspires discomfort in the children when the volume and emotion levels tend to rise. (did you get that? When I yell ,the kids tend to get a little panicky) However, I make it a point to apologize to the children when I cool down. Always. it is important for them to know that it is just frustration making me yell and not genuine anger. Secondly (and I think both of the kids have caught on to this) thanks to a Sterling upbringing and life long influence of virtually every female in my experience including Mrs. Narrator I am now possessed with a sense of guilt as wide as the mighty Mississippi and if I have shouted at the children, there is generally shopping or general spending of money on the way. My point is I have yelled and made the kids feel bad and felt bad about it myself. They're my kids. It doesn't make it right but I am a father, their father...both of them.
You can't tell me that The Boy is the bad seed and then of good conscience say that Isobel is welcome over anytime she likes. How dare you? Who do you think you are? You can't tell me that you have experience with kids with ADHD and then fold when you are put to the test.
It just seems a little odd to me that since The Boy had been going to our old sitter who recently retired (sort of) since he was four or five and not a single report of this kind of behaviour ever greeted me or Mrs. Narrator when we went to get him. But he goes to this present sitter from the beginning of the school year until now and he turns into Fred Krueger, laughing and hacking his playmates while playing capture the flag? Come on lady. It doesn't take a rocket surgeon to smell the crap piling up. It also strikes me as odd that these incidents all seemed to occur around her own two children...if you don't like my kid, come out and say it but don't play the sensitive care-giver card with years of experience and then treat him like a pariah...
There is an old expression that goes if you screw with one of us, you screw with all of us. We lost a sitter today but it's not so bad, Mrs. Narrator is going to stay home and watch the kids. Though its going to prove difficult for her to supervise the children while she is locked in the bedroom. She is not nearly as calm about this as I am and god help us all if she stews about this over the next couple of days and decides to give out a few pieces of her mind...we'll need more than a new sitter.



We were at the mall a while ago, in the record store. I like to take my kids to the record store (Haven't ventured into a real one yet I'll get them warmed up in the minors before taking them major league) and show them all the joys that music can bring. The Boy usually peruses the kick knacks and video games but Izzy will generally follow me and look at the cd's on display around her.
At one point she let out an audible gasp and pulled me toward a cd. "Cool," I said. "An all girl metal band." I briefly glanced at the cover and saw four cute girls in goth type make up but the studs and spike told me that this was not a forlorn band.
"Can I get the cd?" she asked.
"Let's go home and see if we can find them on the computer and if you like them we will come back and buy your very first cd."
It was a proud moment for me, buying my little girl a cd that was not Barney or Bieber. And she's only five!
We got home and I dutifully looked up the band on YouTube. They were even cuter in the video. Not my cup of tea but still not I love you, you love me or Baby oh Baby.
Something struck me as a little odd though. The singer's voice seemed a little deep. I looked them up on Wikipedia...they are called The Black Veil Brides. They are Izzy's new favourite band. They are all boys. They are a metal boy band from somewhere in California. I am no longer cool, I have become my father staring at a poster in my basement room wondering who Ned was and why anyone would want to Damn him...

The Children become Siblings...Daddy's little Maniac...

It was bedtime and I came into her room to tuck her in.
Izzy: "Daddy, can I have a rug in my room?
Daddy: "Sure, we can get you a rug."
Izzy: "Good. If I have a rug, that way my room will be special to friends."
Daddy: "Oh...o.k. Do you want me to snuggle with you?"
Izzy: (Video Game in hand) "I am playing my game. I don't require you."





I am certain that somewhere there are brothers and sisters who help each 0ther to muddle through this life or form an equal parted, mutual admiration society. Somewhere there are parents who intone the wonder and joy of raising children who love on another and always do as they are told. Somewhere all of these things exist...perhaps not in this world...and it damn sure isn't in this house.
It wasn't that long ago that Isobel couldn't wait for her brother to get up so that she could just watch him...I'll say that again...just WATCH him. She asked me early one morning, ' When is he getting up?'
'Soon," I said. 'Why?
'I just want to watch him.'
'Watch him doing what?' I asked.
'Just watch him.' she said.
She was enamoured of him. Hopelessly gaga for her big brother. Just a word from him could make(or break) her entire day. And The Boy to his credit, was almost always totally accommodating . He would wait for her when she was trying to catch up to him, if she got hurt in some way it was as though he could feel the pain himself and if she was crying he was the first to try to assuage her tears. He was a model big brother and it was no wonder she just wanted to watch him.
"Oh somewhere in this favoured land, the sun is shining bright.
The Band is playing somewhere and somewhere hearts are light."
But not here...
At some point during his ten years(nearly eleven, he would want me to point that out) The Boy has developed a brain and a mental acuity so devious, his Mother and I actually fear for our safety if he ever decides to use his new found gifts for evil purposes. He has somehow developed the ability to make his sister lose complete control of her senses without actually doing anything. Certainly nothing punishable, anyway...Brilliant and evil...
The hand full of times that he has been caught doing something, anything, it has been so minute that he still manages to evade any repercussions. He has the ability to get under his sister's skin and spread out his tendrils like an allergic reaction. Not enough to do any real harm but enough to make you snap and get yourself into trouble.
"I just want to SMASH him!" Isobel screamed one day. He had gotten to her.
We have a rule in our house that clearly states 'One child per cushion of the couch.' It preempts any question as to one's place in front of the television. We have had the occasional flare ups but detente is the general order of things. At least it used to be. Isobel loves to recite the rules (she is a girl) but The Boy found a loop hole. By virtue of his age and speed, he can move his feet fro his cushion and touch them onto her cushion with just enough time to get her attention but not actually break any rule. It drove her mad, quite literally. All I could think was ' My god, the genius of that.'
I would like to say that my daughter is calm in the face of adversity, that she takes this all in stride. And she does. Mrs. Narrators daughter however, is a raving lunatic and is currently no match for The Boy's evil.
She was making a card for friend she would see the next day and The Boy looked at her. (his gaze has become evil now) In his look burned the scorn of failure and the laughter of a thousand tormentors. I may be paraphrasing, it was difficult to make out what Isobel was saying through the growls and the tears. After the shredding of her first attempt, she had a second go at the home made greeting card. Both Mrs. Narrator and I had tried to write out what she wanted to say on the card so that he could copy it. The Boy looked at her again. The second attempt was torn from it's stapled backing. The tears flowed freely.
"What's wrong honey?" I asked.
"I can't do this. He keeps looking at me and I CAN'T do this right!"
"Let me see it," I said. "Let's see if we can fix it."
She picked up the piece of paper and crumpled it up into as tight a ball as she could muster. The look on her face said 'You stupid, stupid old man. We can't fix this. Not now, not ever!' and she snapped.
She picked up a baby blanket (hardly a punitive implement but it was close at hand) and began to wail away on The Boy. He laughed, which enraged her further and she swung the blanket with venom and vitriol, growling and spitting like a wild beast. It was only a shout from Mrs. Narrator that brought Isobel back to her senses and she began to cry.
"Come on you, let's go to bed." Mrs. Narrator said.
"O.K." said Izzy through the tears. I picked her up and carried her to her bedroom. In the blink of an eye, they had gone from brother and sister and a close as they could be to SIBLINGS. With rivalry firmly in place.
The Boy came up shortly after that and because he hadn't actually done anything but look at her (and not even in a particularly sinister way) he skirted any sort of outcome other that the precise one he wanted....Genius, pure evil genius...
We were going out one day and his hair looked as though he slept with curlers that someone had wrapped in a wet sweat sock. I offered to comb his hair before we went out, under the guise of making him look presentable...I thought better of it...if you don't see that birth mark it doesn't exist, right?


There are times in one's life when you must take your mind elsewhere. Times when you need to let your mind go for a little walk, away from where it currently is. Perhaps a place of sorrow or pain, perhaps something as simple as skull crushing boredom...Your Happy Place. 'Go to your Happy Place, Sid.'
I always thought that my happy place would involve music and me playing it in front of millions of adoring fans. But it wasn't the right fit. I though maybe it would be the birth of my daughter, which although a joyous and wonderful experience, left me confused and frustrated and fightened. And as it turns out, woefully unprepared for the for the skin peeled back, exposed skull and goggle eyed lunatic ravings of a hormonal mother. (Experienced father's know of what I speak. New father's...you have my sympathy)
I think I spent a lot of time looking for my happy place...maybe too much time. I mean I didn't let life rip itself from under me as I pondered my Happy Place but I did spend a fair amount of time (and no small amount of scotch) looking for it...but devoted readers I have found it. At last I have found my elusive Happy Place and no matter what the situation, I know I can think back on this one moment and smile...laugh even.
I was outside edging the garden of all things, when Isobel came out and asked what I was doing.
"I'm edging the gardens," I said.
"Can I help?" she asked.
"You can help me mulch, after I do the edges."
"No," she said. "I want to use that." She pointed to the weed whip that doubles as an edger.
"Oh honey, I don't know..." I thought about it a second and figured a way that would dissuade her quickly. "OK, but you need to put on long pants and proper shoes. No flip -fops."
The thought of putting on shoes will usually stop my barefoot hillbilly girl from doing just about anything. In a flash she had disappeared into the house and re-emerged wearing black tights and pink wellies. I was on the hook now. How dangerous could it be if she just hacked at the weeds around the yard?
She took the spinning beast from my hands with the skill of a surgeon. My fear of her injuring herself melted away and my fear of the new personality that emerged from my daughter kicked into overdrive. Buzz-uzzz-uzzzz. She set upon the weeds with glee and began cackling as they fell before her. Lopping off heads of flowers as she went.
She stopped briefly and turned around. 'It's making me a little bit wet, on my face.' her face and hair was covered in the green gore of mutilated weeds.
"Well Pick, you can't be a homicidal maniac without a little blood splatter." I said thoughtfully.
"What?" she asked.
"Skip it."
Buzzz-uzzz-uzzz. She cris-crossed the yard for about a half an hour, killing as she went and suddenly came over to me looking upset- squeezing the trigger with no result.
"The battery died." I said.
She threw down the weed whip that doubles as an edger. "Damn it." she walked toward the house, crestfallen...my pink wellied murderous happy place...

Of Summer Vacation and Swimming and Sleeping Bears...Parenting is ruining me...

It's funny to me the total lack of any sense of embarrassment that kids have. Either one of them (though it tends more to be Izzy these days than the boy...he is entering that all important pre-teen phase of his life) can and have walked into the bathroom while Mrs. Narrator or I have been doing anything from shaving to teeth brushing or hair-do doing, dropped trow and taken care of business right there and then. They will carry on conversations as though they were sitting casually at the kitchen table. Just such a conversation took place the other day. I was shaving and in walked Isobel who proceeded to 'have a seat'.
Isobel: "Daddy, how do you spell toilet?"
Daddy: "Why?"
Isobel: "Don't ask, just how do you spell it?"
Daddy: (firmly affixing smart ass cap) "C-R-A-P"
Isobel: "Really?"
Daddy: "Yep"
Isobel: "Daddy, you might hear a sound of something falling in the (sounding it out) Cr-aaa-p...Hey that's not toilet!"


It seems like just yesterday that I let go of Izzy's hand and watched the single silent tear run down her cheek as she got into line with the other kids on her first day of school but here it was, the end of her first year already. I picked her up at the sitter's and gave her a big hug. The kind that starts low to the ground and ends up with the child firmly in your arms and the two of you spinning slightly.
"Daddy!" she said excitedly.
"Well," I asked. "How does it feel, done school and everything?"
"What!!??!" she asked incredulously.
"School's out, your finished now."
"I'm finished school? That was fast. D said I had to go to school for a long time and I told him I didn't have to go to school anymore."
"No, no honey. You just done school for this year. It's the summer time now but you have to go back to school in the fall."
"Daddy?"
"Yes my cooing dove?"
"My teacher said that this is summer vaction."
"Yes," I agreed. "VaCAtion That's right."
"So where are we going to go?" she asked.
"Where are we going to go where?" I puzzled.
"My teacher said that people go away for summer vaction. Where are we going to go?"
"I don't know if we are going to go anywhere for vacation. I don't get any holidays this year and we went to Mexico in the winter."
She sighed a giant sigh like one would make after finally landing a job on Star Trek and being handed a red shirt.
"What's the matter honey?" I asked her.
After another big sigh she finally said. "First you tell me I am NOT finished school forever and then you tell me we are NOT going on summer vaction, I guess that means we are NOT getting a puppy either?"

We Barbecue pretty much all year long (if the weather isn't too horrendous) but Izzy made her first burger a couple of weeks ago. I did the cooking and she did the flipping...and I did the cleaning off of the burger after she flipped it on the deck and I did the eating of the burger after it was on the deck because 'No way am I going to eat that, Daddy. No way...seriously I can't eat it now." I tend to make an extra or two for just such an emergency.

After Isobel's watershed(literally) moments in Mexico, we knew it was just a matter of time before she was leaping headlong into the Grandparents pool. She didn't disappoint. It was a ridiculously hot day and without any debate it was decided we would go to the Grandparents and go for a swim. To give you some idea of the temperature, even Mrs. Narrator got in the pool. No wet hair but in the pool just the same. Izzy had gone over in her bathing suit and spoke about nothing but the pool until she was finally in it...Though she insisted on waiting for her mother to go swimming and wouldn't go with anyone else first...strange for her but the first swim of the year is often about testing the water in more ways than one.
At first she was a little clingy and unsure of herself but when she discovered that she could touch bottom in the shallow end (another first) all bets were off and she was a mad pool leaping fool.
"Daddy, watch this."...splash.
"Opa, watch this."...splash.
"Oma, watch this."...splash
"Mummy, watch this."...splash... sputter... hack... hack... gag... sputter... hack.
"Keep your mouth closed, baby." I said.
"Don't drink the pool water, Izzy." said Mrs. Narrator. "It'll make you sick."
It's funny that even as recently as in Mexico this past winter, we would be in the pool with her always touching her to make sure she was not in any sort of aquatic danger but as soon as she was able to touch bottom at the grandparents pool, the panic seemed to abate. Not that we weren't still attentive, quite the opposite but Mrs. Narrator' parents' pool has become something of a summer yardstick and as soon as the bottom is touched then the race is on and the fact that the kids are growing up sinks in...
Isobel wore her bathing suit to the grandparents house and brought along a change of clothes with her. I should say some thing about this suit. It was a hand me down from one of her friends and it is a little on the big side, it has at least two holes in it, a mild stain on the front of it and it is absolutely Isobel's favourite. She has newer ones and better looking ones but they did not come from this particular friend and so they are substandard. Oma wanted Isobel to leave it there so she would have a suit to wear when she goes over for visits and over-nighters this summer. Isobel was not interested in leaving it there.
"Isobel why don't you leave your bathing suit here, so you'll have one to swim in the next time you come over?" Oma asked.
Isobel just shook her head.
"But Izzy, I need a suit." Oma repeated.
"It would never fit you." said Isobel.
Mrs. Narrator's cousin was also at the Grandparents house with her two sons and it was nice to see The Boy have someone his own age and gender to play with. Not that it isn't great that he likes to play with his sister but sometimes a boy needs to be a boy. Loud and crazy and splashy and...a boy.
Inevitably, it being the generation of electronics, a video game emerged and the three of them disappeared to play it...and suddenly there was silence. But not a suspicious silence, no just the rapturous silence of three pre-teen boys who had found something to amuse themselves that didn't involve noise or property damage.
Perhaps it is a generational thing or maybe it is because when this silence erupted with their own male children (who had no video games...certainly not hand held ones) it absolutely meant they were up to no good but when the silence comes the grandmothers... can't seem to leave well enough alone.
"What are they doing in there?" Oma asked suspiciously.
"It's quiet and nobody is running out looking for something to do or tattling or bleeding. They're fine. Leave them be."
"Please don't poke the sleeping bear." said Mrs. Narrator's cousin." If you poke the bear, it will wake up and then it will be all grumpy and whiny and want it's parents to spend money."
The boys were in the pool room for quite a while. They came out from time to time and went swimming. They were loud and splashy and boys when they came out but then they got out of the pool, ate snacks and went back into the pool room and played games again and were quiet as could be. And The Boy was right in the thick of it and it was great to see him running with his own herd...



I always considered myself a fairly rugged individual. I mean I wasn't a huge fighter but I could handle my own and there were very few things that bothered me on an emotional level. Death, war, suffering people on the televison, strife and all the other things that transpire everyday in this modern world just didn't phase me too much...yeah, then I became a parent and became the seething cauldron and often blubbering mess you see before you.
I have often caught myself posturing like some kind of silverback gorilla at the mall when I see people pass near my children that I perceive as a possible threat. I have felt my back arch and my chest puff out in attempts to make myself appear larger and more fierce. I'm dead serious. I've caught myself in the store window and only then asked myself 'what in the hell are you doing?'
The worst however, is the other end of the scale. I saw a clip of a movie about two of the worst people in Canadian history (yes, those two) and found myself constantly checking on Isobel as I was outside cutting the lawn...she was ten feet away from me. There's no harm in being cautious?
The other day I was driving home and saw a dead raccoon kit on the side of the road. It is that time of year and there seem to be a lot more dead young ones than usual. On this occasion the mother raccoon was trying to decide whether to remain by it's offspring's side or go back across the road and nearly got hit herself...by me and the car coming the other direction. Sad? Absolutely but the first thing that ran through my head was 'Oh, that is so terrible. Kids should never go before their parents do.' Oh my god...really!!? over a mother raccoon...no more kids, it's turned me into a cream puff.

The wonderous power of movies...bag ladies on the move...

I noticed she was shouting at Santa, though I couldn't hear what she was saying. By the way she was wagging her finger and gesturing wildly, I knew it was serious and Santa was head for the doghouse...again. I was going to ask her what the problem was later but she came up to me first.
Isobel: "Daddy, what does
Isobel: "Daddy, what does shite mean?"
Daddy: "It's the same as the 'S' word. It's the Scottish way of saying the 'S' word. Irish too I think."
Isobel: "Oh I'm Scottish, right?" ( I could hear the excitement in her voice)
Daddy: "Yes, partly Scottish." (I knew where this was headed so I changed the subject)
Daddy: "I noticed you were shouting at Santa, what did her do now?"
Isobel: (letting out huge sigh) "I don't like Santa anymore."
Daddy: "Why not honey? What did poor old St. Nick do now?
Isobel: " Santa's being like shite right now and I seriously do not like it."



I love the movies. The orchestrated scenario of going to the theatre was one of my favourite things from childhood and still one of my favourite things to do, even with my own kids...especially with my own kids.
Going with my mother was usually a breeze. She was either an excellent planner or multi tasker or a little of both. We were in the building and in our seats, goodies in hand before we knew it. Going to the movies with Dad was a little different and it didn't happen very often which is why it never failed to remain firmly fixed in my mind.
My Father hated to miss any aspect of the theatre experience and that included the previews. I can't fault him for it, I'm a preview junky myself. But we never seemed to leave the house on time, which set in motion a terrible chain of events that got worse as we went along. Because we were late leaving the house, we end up in the back of the massive line to see whatever we were seeing.(My Father never thought to take us to a second run movie) Which meant we were in the back of the line at the concession stand. 'Know what you want by the time we get up there.' he would always say and we would inevitably respond that we did. Though inevitably that would change at least six times by the time we got up to the counter. Dad always had the same thing, licorice all-sorts and a Coke. I guess he figured we should be as efficient.
Because we were so behind up to this point it meant the real possibility that we would be unable to sit together. I don't remember that ever happening but I remember being terrified and a little excited at the prospect of sitting by myself in the dark. We would take our seats as the lights went down and My father would breathe a sigh of relief at having pulled it off by the skin of his teeth. At some point before the main feature, I was almost certain to tell my father I had to go to the bathroom to which he cursed and muttered something about a bladder like a little girl. I was never certain what he meant by that and was secretly amazed by perfect the timing my little girl's bladder always had.
Now the kids and I love to go to the movies though I have a few ticks that are holdovers from my days of going to the movies with the old man. I leave entirely too early and I try to cram as much crap in my arms and pockets so I don't have to miss anything.(previews included) All children(read Isobel as The Boy has the bladder of a Nordic god and actually has to remember to go to the bathroom) must go pee before we leave the house AND as soon as we get to the theatre if there is even the slightest chance they will need to go once the movie has started.
I learned something this weekend that maybe I really didn't know or possibly learned and forgot or more likely, learned and it didn't really sink in... Apart from the person who makes a little tear in your ticket, you don't actually need to have any sort of contact with any one in the building aside from looking at them. Nary a word needs to be spoken in this modern age of ours.
Like my father before me, the best laid plans to have us out the door with plenty of time to spare had long since been shot to hell and my mood was starting to reflect it as I barked for the kids to hurry up and get in the car. We drove like a bat out of hell headed down the highway for the theatre and as we entered the building, I saw it there... a glowing bastion of technology and the saviour of dis organized fathers everywhere. The automatic ticket machine. I looked over to the ticket counter and the indecent line that was spewing from it. Cursing out loud now, though still unheard by anyone but me and the kids. The Boy pointed it out.
"What's that thing?" he asked.
"That's the...automatic ticket machine!" I said. (my mood going from black to rosy gold covered, sunshine M & M's quicker than you can say 'we are going to see The Green God-Damned Lantern and you sir, will have the extra large snack box for being an altogether clever ten year old.')
"You have to have a credit card to use one, I have a credit card. I am an adult." I said matter of factly.
"Really?" asked The Boy. "I would have never guessed that."
I couldn't determine if he was being sincere or being a smart ass but I let it go. He did put the ticket machine idea in my head. It the blink of an eye almost literally, we were in our seats. The kids were munching away at their individual kid sized snack packs and I was stuffing handfuls of Snocaps in my mouth before the crappy theatre trivia had ended...the previews hadn't even started yet. I found out later that not only can you pay your admission online but you can actually buy your snacks online too. You can print off a redeemable coupon for popcorn and sweeties and drinks and just present it to the person at the concession stand. There wouldn't be any question as to what you wanted so if you chose not to, you wouldn't even need to speak to the person and still get exactly what you wanted. Or if you would just as soon NOT stand in the concession line, they bring it to you on a rolling cart five or ten minutes before the movie begins. Ho, ho! The time alone this saves absolutely boggles the mind. My father would've crapped his pants with joyful abandon had this been available to him.
I mentioned a while back about taking The Boy to see The Incredible Hulk and how incredibly loud it was. The Green Lantern was twice as loud. I have diminished hearing in one ear and I thought it was loud. I remember watching horror movies when I was younger with hands covering my eyes, peeking out through fingers at parts that didn't sound too scary. My kids watched the movie with hands firmly over their ears. Only lowering their hands when there was little or no chance of anything remotely intense or action packed occurring on the screen. They saw the whole movie but heard only the kissing bits.
Somewhere around the middle of the movie, Isobel began to say she wanted to go home. I figured it was just due to the volume of the movie. I gave her a handful of Smarties and told her it would be over soon and we would go home then She seemed to be OK with that. But as we were leaving and I offered to spend some money in the theatre's arcade and she refused, that I knew it wasn't just the volume of the movie. She went to bed with out incident and seemed to be alright at bedtime. She woke up around three that morning and came into my room crying.
"What's the matter, honey?" I asked her.
"Green Lantrin." she sobbed.
"What?" I asked, not certain I had heard her right.
"The damn Green Lantrin gave me a headache."



I lived in the U.S. for a while and I had heard stories of things like this but never thought it would happen to me. Parking your car at night and forgetting to lock the doors. You come down the next morning and find the evidence that a bag lady or homeless man has been using your car as a flop house. Usually it's just a mess, sometimes it's human waste, sometimes the homeless person in question is still asleep in your car.
I came outside to find Isobel sitting on the hood of my car.
"What are you doing?" I asked her.
"Playing Whitesnake." she said.
It didn't really dawn on me for a couple of minutes what she actually meant. When it did, I actually spoke out loud.
"Oh my god. She's acting like Tawny Kitaen. (for those of you keeping score at home, that is the redhead rolling around on the hood of David Coverdale's car in the 'Here I go Again' video)
I went back out front to say something to her and saw the real reason she was on the hood of my car. The back of my car had become something one might see on a program about hoarders. There were three pairs of flip flops, one pair of Uggs, one pair of high heels. One Dsi(pink) to video games for said Dsi. Two pairs of socks. Story books, puzzle pieces and colouring books and markers...Now had it not been for what I saw next, I would not have thought too much about the filth explosion in my car. There in my front seat (fully reclined) under a blanket and atop a comfy pillow, lay Santa.
Hello, my name is Sid and my daughter is a bag lady...and she has moved into my car.

The Old Man and The Pond...The End Of an Era...

We were driving along, the three of us an I noticed something odd. There was no noise coming from the back seat, not a single sound.
Daddy: What are you two doing? It's awfully quiet back there."
Isobel and The Boy: "..."
I learned long ago that when the two of them are this quiet, no good can come of it. I flipped the mirror down to look at them and noticed only the tops of their heads. Both deep in the throes of video game hypnosis. It would be a quiet ride. I only wished we were going further than the grocery store.
Isobel broke the silence.
Isobel: "I forget Daddy, is it just shit I'm allowed to say or can I say bullshit too?"
The Boy: "Izzy! God stop saying both of them!"



I have several memories from my childhood that are permanently etched into my brain. One is of my father's jeans, with his legs still quite inside them piercing the water beside me as his hands reached in to pull me out. I had wandered down the shore when we were on holiday. I kept wandering until I was literally in over my head. I have no memory of any of it except the jean covered legs and the hands pulling me out.
I have another very clear memory of getting up early with my father-very early on a Saturday morning to go fishing. He was wearing jeans and sneakers, a t- shirt of some description and a black cardigan he called his fishing sweater. It smelled of cigarettes and bait and I can still smell it and feel the warmth of it as he draped it around me when I got cold sitting in a boat in the middle of Lake Ontario. Again, I have no memory of the rest of the day, not what we caught (if anything) nor when we went or with whom but I remember that sweater and I remember feeling a bond with my father that I hadn't felt to that point...I took the kids fishing this past weekend, Father's day.
There are certain things that one must have when going fishing and I endeavoured to introduce Izzy and The Boy to these unwritten rules of the sport. For example, one must have a fishing pole. Now you might take it for granted that everyone knows and understands this concept but when I mentioned to Isobel that we had to go out on Saturday to get her a fishing pole before we went fishing on Sunday she asked, 'will I really need one?' I couldn't tell if she was being serious or existential. With her, either could be the appropriate answer.
The second item, is a tackle box. Not essential for everyone per se but at least one member of the fishing party should have a reasonably equipped box of lures etc and be willing to share with the others. In our case, The Boy has a flashy newer number that has a handful of lures in it and mine is a well worn beat up dull orange piece of crap that doesn't fit all of the necessary things a parent is required to bring when taking his kids fishing and it is held shut by a cotton hair tie.
Isobel thought it was the greatest treasure chest she had ever seen when she opened it up to view the contents within.
"When do I get my own box and things?" she asked referring to the multicoloured lures and plugs inside the box.
"Learn to fish a little bit better and then I'll get you one." I said.
"Do they have pink ones?" she asked hopefully.
"I imagine so," I said. "I think you can just about get every colour you could think of."
"O.K.," she said. "But until I get mine can I be in charge of this one?"
"O.K." I said. "But you musn't touch anything inside of it. There are hooks all over and I don't want you to get stuck on one."
She agreed not to touch anything without asking me first without any sort of complaint at all. This in and of itself damn near floored me.So I let her carry it all she wanted, which she did with an air of authority. She might not have been allowed to touch anything but she damn sure wasn't going to let anybody else touch it while she was on the job.
And so it was off to get her a pole. There were many to choose from and she chose a snappy Tinkerbell number with a light up handle. A decent amount of line and a decent amount of test on the line. I learned from an earlier fishing venture with The Boy, not to underestimate the power (read blind luck) of the junior fisher as his first time out with me, he caught a three or four pond bass that nearly yanked the pole out of his hands-but didn't break his line (thank-god).
We cashed out, got in the car and were headed for home when I noticed she was quiet. Abnormal for her especially after getting something new. Usually she will chirp away for hours to her minions about the wonders of her new things.
"What's the matter?" I asked her.
Her eyes began to well up with tears. "I didn't really want that one." she choked out.
We were nearly home or I would have taken her back into the store to get a different one.
"Honey, all the poles were the same. All the light up ones wee the same. Just different pictures. Which one did you want?"
"Spiderman." She said.
Up until this point I didn't think she even knew who Spiderman was, let alone want a fishing pole with his picture emblazoned on it.
"Trust me baby," I tried to soothe her. "They are all the same and Tinkerbell will work just as well."
"O.K." she conceded.
As fate would have it, just as I went to string up ol' Tinkerbell, the line snapped and the reel seized. My brain snapped into high gear.
"Get in the car guys." I yelled out to them. "Izzy's pole is broken so we're going back to the store to get her a new one."
We got back to the store, returned the old pole and got a new one AND returned back home all before you can say 'Spiderman who?' and with her light up Mickey Mouse fishing pole, Isobel was all set to head out to the pond.
There is a third thing that i believe is essential for the true fishing experience, that is a hat. A fishing hat. everybody has one of one sort or another...or at least should have one. I had my beloved Montreal hat and Izzy her Purple Dora baseball hat but The Boy's hats had all become too small for his head.
He disappeared upstairs and came back down with one on his head. He went to the bathroom mirror and re-emerged after several minutes of adjusting to get it just right.
"You can't wear that hat Buddy," I said.
"What!!??" he asked incredulously.
It is worth noting that the hat was striped red and gold with the words High Times emblazoned across the top of it with a giant pot leaf smack dab in the middle of it. A gift from his father some time ago.
"Oh, because it's so dusty?"
"Yeah," I said. "You know how Nana hates when things are dusty."
I lent him one of my hats and we were out the door, finally and within twenty minutes were standing on the shore of my mothers pond poles in hand ready to make lasting memories.
I am a lure fisherman and The Boy fancies himself the same. He caught his bass on a top floating lure after all. Isobel opted for the more traditional worm, hook and bobber route. The Boy cast his line out as I put the worm on for Isobel. She made her first cast and it was a beautifu l one. The furthest she had cast since getting the pole. (at least an hour of practice casts the night before had clearly paid off)
"Izzy I'm telling you that you are going to catch a fish almost right away fishing with worms."
The word had barely left my mouth as she got her first hit. I figured she would be a bit panicky when it happened but she handles it like pro.
"Daddy, I got a fish, I got a damn fish! Holy Crap I got Fish!"
"Reel it in." I said as she wound up her line. It was a sun fish and a decent sized one at that.
"That's not as big as the one i got." said The Boy.
"No, this is only a sunfish," I said. "But if I were catching pan fish for supper, this one would be big enough to keep>"
"Really?" he asked. "Good job Izzy." (To his credit, The Boy got a decent sized one too)
Sadly though, this was the best our day was and it was never that good again. We did learn some things though. That Isobel is the world champion sunfisher of all time- she caught them all day, even when she said she had had enough and merely dropped her line in the water by mistake. Not to mention that of the six fish she caught, two of them were with a bare hook. (I guess it still smelled like a worm) We also learned that The Boy is as skillful a tree catcher as ever I've seen. Present company included and that he is now convinced I owe my father at least $6000 in lost fishing lures ( I do remember a Daredevil he was a little miffed about at the time). And most importantly, that an adult and two children can never fit comfortably nor fish successfully in a paddle boat. I don't care how skinny the family is or how active the fish are. It can't be done.
I don't remember who said it, It may have been Abraham Licoln or it may have been me, though it seems awfully profound to have come from someone like me but there is a saying that goes something like this; "The man who has everything is the man who can look in his child's eyes and see the love therein." I went out there hoping to put a memory in my kids that would last a lifetime and came away with one of my own...Best Father's Day ever.



This weekend will see something come to a close that will affect all three of us, Me, Izzy and The Boy. Mrs. Narrator's roller derby trips are over until October. That's not to say that we won't do anything fun or interesting as a whole family unit but the dynamic of it all will be entirely different. I know the kids are excited about the prospect and so is Mrs. Narrator but I can't help feel a little melancholy about the loss of my Friday night dinner companions and my shopping buddies.
And so gentle readers, the kids and I have decided that such a monumentous occasion deserves an event equally monumentous to mark its passing. Something worthy of remembrance and celebration with song and merriment for years and generations to come.
We sat down, the three of us and decided that this weekend, our last weekend as a power trio, we will Get A McRib and see The Green Lantern and Perhaps Do A Little Light Shopping!
O.K so we don't aim high...what do you want from us? Revel in your mediocrity, we do...at least with Mrs. Narrator being home on the weekends now, the kids can stop carrying around the cardboard cut out of her. It tends to block the rear window when we're driving around...

Father's Day...Santa, Jesus Christ and Everybody else...

She has taken to talking into the T.V remote like a cell phone again. She has done this virtually since she could talk. I don't recall anyone ever demonstrating this to her, she just sort of picked it up.
Isobel: (into T.V. remote) "So anyway, I was just downstairs with my Daddy and we were...wait, just hold on...(to me) yes?"
Daddy: "What do you want to drink?"
Isobel: "Hold on a minute, I have to take this call. (Back to T.V. remote) "So like I was saying, I was just downstairs with my Daddy and my Daddy is going to take me fishing but I'm scared because my brother is allergic to worms."



A friend of mine had given Isobel a Barbie suitcase complete with a collapsible handle and wheels at the bottom. She was beside herself with excitement.
"It's just like Mummy's suitcase that she takes to Mexico.
"That's right."
"I'm going to take this to the Mexico house when we go. Where did I get this suitcase?"
"My boss gave it to you, he has a little girl who is older than you and doesn't play with it anymore. He thought you might like to have it."
"Really?'
"Yep. Open it up."
She opened it and you'd have thought she was looking into the briefcase from Pulp Fiction.
" "Oh my god Daddy. It's full Barbie stuff! Look.
And it was full of Barbie stuff. Dolls and clothing, pets and appliances. Stuff she didn't have and stuff she liked.
"Look at this doll Daddy, I didn't even know I wanted this!"
Then she pulled out a toy washing machine, identical to one she had been given sometime ago by one of the other generous parents of girls that are out growing their little girl toys.
"Oh my god Daddy, look." she held up the machine for me to see.
"Oh look, another washing machine. Now you can do twice as much laundry." I said
"That's not funny Daddy...really... not funny."
We were driving along, Izzy, The Boy and me. I'm not sure how the conversation came around to the subject it did but from out of nowhere, Izzy asked "Daddy, is this the holy crap handle?"
I spit my diet Dr. Pepper all over the steering wheel and asked her to repeat herself,which she gladly did.
"Is this the holy crap handle? D says this handle is called the Holy crap handle. Is it?"
"I've always called it that." I answered.
"Really, Daddy? You said crap not shit?"
There are time when being lax with your children about the uses of vulgar language can reach up and bite you on the ass. This was spiralling into one of them rapidly."
"Well I might have called it that word too." I said.
"What word Daddy," she asked me. "Shit?"
Now I can't swear as to her intentions but from where I was sitting and the tone of her voice, I would swear she was goading me into saying it.
"What?" she asked in an indignant tone. "You don't care if I say shit."
"Well I said that but I didn't exactly mean..."
I am amazed that I didn't slide off my seat there and then as my ass had clearly been bitten completely away at that exact moment.
"Let's just talk about something else." I said.
"O.K." she asked hopefully. "What should we talk about now?"
"Well we could ..."
"Look Daddy!" she shouted. "A Jesus Christ cross!"
"A what?" I asked.
"A Jesus Christ cross. You know... Jesus Christ?" She closed her eyes, stretched out her arms to the side and wiggled her hands around. More like Jesus Fosse but I got the gist of what she meant.
"Ummm yeah?" I said.
"D says that Jesus Christ is real. Is he real, Daddy?"
"Well," I began. "The Romans were very good about keeping records and they say that..."
"And D says that Jesus came here to save soap."
"Soap?" I asked.
"Soap." she said. "If you love Jesus then he will save you and your soap."

For those of you who regularly read this little blurb, you will be happy to know that Isobel and Santa have mended there relationship and are friends once more. To those of you unfamiliar, Santa is an electronic dancing and singing Christmas decoration that Isobel has a love hate relationship with.
We were in our usual after school positions, I on the treadmill and Izzy playing with the treasures in the basement. I noticed she was carrying Santa around and cooing at him in a very motherly way.
"I see you and Santa have patched things up." I said.
"What?" she asked.
"The last time you played with Santa, you weren't very happy with him." I reminded her.
"Oh," she said. "I like him again and I don't really have anybody else to play with. Also he finally learned how to listen to what I tell him."
He new favourite song came on my ipod (Hocus Pocus by Focus. She likes the yodelling guy) and she was singing and dancing with Santa. Telling him to rock out and pounding his fist in the air. Once the song ended, they took their bows and went back to playing. She set him down on an uneven surface and told him to stay there. When Santa started to shift she turned on him.
"Stay there I said." you could hear the venom rising in her voice.
He slid even further and she drilled a plastic cup at him. Had he been real his eyes would be watering like a tap.
"I said stay there, god-dammit!"
I wish strength and patience to whatever boy Isobel decides is going to be her husband. He's going to need it...and maybe a crash helmet...





Ah another Father's day is nearly upon us. That time when we celebrate all of those things that Father's do for us, like cutting the lawn, raking the lawn, bagging up the clippings, washing the deck. So we get Dad a little something to let him know how much we appreciate him and then we let him get on with cutting the lawn, raking the lawn, bagging the clippings, washing the deck...
Here's how Mother's day usually goes around our house...most houses I suspect. Mrs. Narrator gets up later and the kids give her flowers and cards and then she goes off to roller derby for practice and I look after the kids because it's her day and that's what she wants to do on her day. And why not? She's earned it, right? On Father's day, Mrs. narrator gets up later (more than six hours in bed and my back is buggered for the rest of the day. Really) I cut the lawn and then she goes to roller derby and I look after the kids. Did you see the difference there? No flowers AND I get to cut the lawn!
Seriously though, I really don't much care about Father's day. It's a silly thing to celebrate your parents just because they're your parents. Birthdays I get. It's saying 'you've made it another year and we're glad, here's some cake.' When you get older it's saying 'holy shit you're still alive and we're all amazed, here's some cake.' But to celebrate the instinct to reproduce seems a little contrived and Hallmarkish to me. But the kids love to make all the school made gifts that they just know you're going to love and like the giant light up Hawaiian ties I keep hoping for and never receiving (not that I have an office job to wear them to) you can't say no to them.
Mrs. Narrator asked me a while ago, one of my first Father's days, what I wanted on MY day. I had to think about it. I could have come up with a whopper of a selfish bastard of a thing to do and likely would have gotten away with it because it was my day. The first thing that came to mind is still on record as one of the best Father's days I have ever spent. I took the boy to See the Incredible Hulk (the one with Edward Norton, not the one with the Australian guy. A good film but the Norton one was a little less convoluted...I digress) It was his first movie in Dolby stereo and the first really loud scene that kicked in scared the holy Jesus out of him and he shot most of his popcorn into the seats in front of us. I will always remember this day.
So for Father's day this year, The kids and I are hanging a sign on the door, packing a lunch and going fishing. It'll be Izzy's first time drowning worms and The Boy is fast becoming an Angling legend. It is going to be chaos and madness and arguing and who gets to go first and shouting and yelling and tears and laughter and maybe even a fish or two...and it's mine, all mine...
Happy Father's day from all of us at Fuzzy Blue Chair to all of my fellow Dads. Have a cold one and put your feet up but not for too long, that grass isn't going to cut itself.

Earache v 2.2...Isobel is not allowed to touch the closet, ever...

When she was much younger, Isobel was like many children and put things in her mouth. (is it a food/not food kind of thing like sharks do with surfers?) If you're lucky, you catch everything in time. If you're not so lucky, you hope that what goes down will come out and that it didn't have sharp edges.
Daddy: "What's that in your mouth?"
Isobel: "Nothing."
Daddy: "What was that in your mouth?"
Isobel: "A stone." (She was starting to tear up quickly)
Daddy: "What!?! A stone, what stone?!?!"
Isobel: "This." (she showed me a small oval piece of glass with very round edges. The kind of thing one might put in a vase to hold dried flowers in place. Glass yes but if she was determined to swallow something, this was the perfect thing.)
Daddy: "Did it go all the way down?"
Isobel: (nodding her head as gigantic tears rolled down her cheeks) "Yes"
Daddy: "Well that's good to know and with a little luck, in a day or so you can tell your friends you crapped a marble."
Isobel: "Really?"
Daddy: "Uh-huh."
Isobel: "Cool..."


A week into her recovery from the crippling earache and all seemed to be on the mend... for at least a couple of days anyway. By Saturday afternoon, we had scrapped her plans of going to a birthday party and I was loading her into the car and heading for the after hours doctor.
Her mood was better but I could hear her whispering to herself on the way "this really hurts my ear.' It was funny and heartbreaking all at once. And when she declined the opportunity to keep playing my Ipod, I knew that it was really bugging her.
Mrs. Narrator had prepared a note for me for the doctor, detailing medicine doses and times for that day and all other pertinent information one might need when taking a child to a medical professional. I promptly left this at home along with her health card. A small green card without which it is next to impossible to get the receptionist to open the glass window, let alone see a doctor.
Maybe it's my personable demeanor or maybe my boyish good looks and charm coupled with the fact that the room was filled with other dads with other sick kids and I would bet my children's college education that not a single one of them had any sort of relevant information as to the nature of the child's illness...just like me...I'm sure it also helped our cause that the receptionist said 'Isobel, right?' as we walked up to the window.
We checked in and sat down to take our place among the walking wounded. Dads and their kids, who all had the same look of confusion on their faces. The fathers with a look of 'somebody call my name and tell me what to do next because I haven't the foggiest clue.' And kids who looked like they just didn't want to be sick anymore. And elderly people who just looked tired and worn out. Not necessarily sick so much as used up...And Izzy and me.
A man came in in a wheel chair and I knew Isobel would have something to say about it. She did.
"Why is he in that?" she whispered.
I was about to say something when the man in the wheel chair spoke up.
"I have a disease," he said. "Messages from my brain get lost and tell mu muscles to rest when the should move and to move when they should rest. That's why my legs are shaking and that's why I have to sit in this chair."
His legs were shaking, terribly and I never did figure out if the man had heard Izzy or if he was intuitive enough after so long in the chair to explain things to children who were obviously inquisitive about his situation. Whatever the answer, he explained himself better than I ever could. He got called by the nurse and Isobel and I went back to sitting and waiting.
In the morning before we left, Mrs. Narrator had remarked that The Boy had various ear problems in his younger day and they always put him on Zithromax. She wondered aloud why they had not put Isobel on it in the first place as the medicine she had been put on seemed to have a diminished effect on her ear.
Finally we called out of the ticket area and put into the departure lounge. Normally this will add at least another forty five minutes to your Doctor wait time, even Izzy knew this and complained 'Now we really have to wait.' The Doctor came in after a couple of minutes. I reached into my pocket to retrieve the list of information and when I realized I hadn't brought it with me, I began to founder hopelessly and stutter like a fool. Muttering things about fever and banana medicine tasting awful and how you just can't get a good health-care in the back of your car anymore. I thought of all the fathers sitting in the waiting room, helpless and lost and realized I had just crossed the line and joined their ranks. Mercifully, the Doctor had long since tuned me out and was looking at Isobel's ears.
"Yes," the Doctor began. "Quite a nasty infection. I'm going to put her on a heavy dose of Zithromax and it should burn out the infection in a couple of days."
I laughed out loud (thinking back on it now, it was an inappropriately long and loud laugh. The kind generally made by people of questionable wit who find themselves in uncomfortable situations.) I went on to explain to her about the conversation I had with Mrs. Narrator about The Boy and his messy ears. She actually looked at me and blinked, not saying a word for what seemed like an hour. She finally broke the silence saying she would just go and get the prescription off the printer. As she left the room I got a look from Isobel that said I was not the only one who was mortified by unbelievable 'Dadness.' As we were heading out she assured us that Isobel would be feeling much better in a day or two and with script in hand we headed out to the drug store.
We handed the pharmacist the piece of paper and I knew Izzy was already feeling better because she insisted on shopping and getting a bouquet of lollipops for her and also one for The Boy. We stepped up the pharmacist's counter to pay for the medicine and for the suckers and the pharmacist asked Isobel if he could have one of the suckers as he was explaining to me the dosage of her antibiotics. Izzy played a little bit shy at first but when he said he really wasn't going take a lollipop, she sort of warmed up to him. It might help to note that the pharmacist was a middle-eastern man.
"Daddy," she kind of half whispered. "he must have already been to the beach."
"Why?" I asked.
"He's got a tan." she said.
I laughed. The pharmacist laughed and gave her a big gumball out of the bucket on his counter...she was already feeling better...



I don't know why but Isobel's closet door has a lock on it. The keys to this door have been hanging on a little fuzzy picture holder that sits on her dresser, since forever. Of course like anything else, if she gets it into her mind to play with something it becomes open territory. She doesn't know the real use of most of these things and they tend to fall by the wayside. It's never been a problem before.
Of late however, Isobel has taken to playing with the lock on the door while she is picking out her clothes for school and closing the door just enough to get it open up again. A kindergarten version of dancing in front of the tiger's mouth only this time she got bitten.
She closed the door tight and said to me "It's not locked or anything."
Which told me immediately that it was locked, which set off a frantic search for the keys to open the door, which set off the boiler in my brain which drove my frustration levels through the roof. Packing it in for the night after realizing there was nothing I could do right then and so I would deal with it the following day.
I used to have some degree of skill with opening doors using credit cards and the like...these skills have long since left me. Round one to the door. I decided then that I would take the door off the hinges and there is something to be said about the craftsmanship of a door that is over a hundred years old. The frame is, more or less, intact and the door is open. After much swearing and cursing and sweating and telling my daughter that she is "Not going to touch the god-damned closet door ever again."
She started crying. "How can I pick my clothes if I can't touch my door?"
"Well you have to...you'll just...awww crap."
She is much smarter than I'll ever be...(as an addendum to this, this afternoon I was looking for the television remote which has disappeared into Isobel's play world somewhere. I put mu hand between the cushions of the couch, one of the usual remote hiding spots and lo and behold I pulled out...the closet keys.)