The other night my son woke up screaming. He was having a nightmare. As tears streamed down his face I did my best to hold him. Console him. As he tried to catch his breath through heart wrenching sobs he told me what was upsetting him so much. He told me that he had lost his compass. I was lost. What compass?
'My compass!' he shouted. 'My old compass. The compass my daddy gave me. It's lost. Forever. I want it back!'
I have to admit that I had no idea what he was talking about. Had his dad given him an old compass? I asked him what he thought happened to the compass.
'I think I gave it away. To a friend. I want it back. '
I asked him who he had given it to?
'I don't remember!!! My compass. It's gone. Daddy gave it to me. It was old. It had rust on it. I gave it away. I lost it. I want it back.'
I remembered having a couple compasses. I described these and asked if these were the ones he had lost.
'No! Those are new. The one I lost is old. Rusty. From my Dad.' His cries took over his voice. Words were impossible.
I held him. I rocked him. I told him that everything was going to be ok. I told him that I would help him look for his compass in the morning. I was grasping at straws. I felt helpless. I was clinging to him as much as he held on to me. I was able, eventually, to calm him down. He sniffled and snuffled in my arms and his breathing became more steady. Regular. He was almost ready to go back to sleep. As his eyes began to droop closed, he said that there was another thing that was bothering him. I asked him to tell me what it was.
'I see my daddy going down a long dark tunnel. You are going down another tunnel and my sister is going down another. I'm not sure what tunnel to go down. Who should I follow. Should I go with one of you or am I supposed to go down my own tunnel? By myself?'
Ok. I was floored. My son is six. 6. What the Fuck? I got him to start to think about things that would make him smile. I sang a couple silly songs. He giggled. He turned his face toward my chest and fell asleep. The next day, nothing more was mentioned about the lost compass or dark tunnels.
What am I to think about this? Freud and his ilk would have a field day to be sure. I know that my son misses his dad. I know that he hasn't seen him much lately. Xman has been too busy. My son did, however, see xman briefly on Easter Sunday. The nightmare occurred the next night. Ok. My son feels a bit lost. Directionless. I get that. It appears that my son also has an inner well of metaphor deep within him out from which his subconscious draws understanding. I find this to be both extremely cool and vaguely disconcerting.
How do I feel? I feel that I'm doing the best that I can. I feel that I'm living day to day to the utmost. I feel that I'm groping down a long dark tunnel without a compass.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Missing
For me, it started with a message sent to my inbox at work. At the same time both innocuous and niggling. A girl was gone. Missing. There was really no other information. Just a request to keep one's eyes open. A couple days later, her picture was everywhere. Covering the walls. A beautiful girl. Missing. Gone. Drawn to the picture, I gaze at her eyes. Searching. For insight? Understanding? Who is she? Her eyes reflect strength and vulnerability. A sense of humour and a serious streak. Mischeviousness and sorrow. The eyes are haunting. Her expression relaxed yet I know that after the picture was taken she would have gotten up. Moved. No longer frozen. Disappeared from the frame. As I look into her eyes I begin to see myself reflected. That's a danger. I don't know her. I only see her picture. What I am reading into the picture is coming from myself. My own fears. Insecurities. Hopes. Dreams. Slowly news starts to trickle in. She went skating. She was angry. She was depressed. She left her computer on. She left her wallet. She left her cell phone. Left them behind. Police are on campus. Searching the river. Searching the shadows. They are as shadows themselves. They work alongside us but make no contact. They are both in and outside of our world. Parallel. Like her. Now that she is gone. Missing. Her family has made pleas. Heartfelt. Heart breaking. That she left with no word is uncharacteristic. Not her. The police don't suspect foul play. We all, however, are peering into shadows ourselves. Into mirrors. Aware that the boogie man exists. He hides behind corners ready to jump out. He is beside us. He is within us. Ready to take us. Do damage. Steal. Remove us. Make us gone. Missing.
When I was in the Sault I examined two pictures in my father's house. They are pictures of his father. My grandfather. I have looked at them in passing over the years. I had never really looked at them in order to see. One of the pictures depicts my grandfather, my grandmother and my uncle posing for the camera. This is the only picture that survived the war. The only picture that exists from the time when my father still resided in the village where he was born. The second picture is of two headshots side by side. One of my grandmother and the second of my grandfather. The picture of my grandfather was taken from the family portrait. There is only one image of my grandfather left. Someone had carefully drawn in a shirt and tie to his headshot. Funny that I only noticed this now. I examined his eyes. Trying to find myself in his face. In the past, I remember looking to my grandmother for this. His face never really drew me in. He seemed inconsequential. I asked my dad about him. Apparently, my grandfather had a reputation of being tough and fair. People looked up to him and followed his lead. When the communists came to their village, he was chosen as a farm leader. A spokesman. The people of the village didn't care much for the communists. To them, communism was an excuse for laziness. One day, my grandfather was taken away by a couple men driving a black car. He was never seen by his family again. He was gone. Missing. My grandmother tried to find him. She searched. She asked questions. She demanded answers. Finally, she was told. She was told to let him go. He was gone. Missing. If she continued, she too would go missing. Be gone. She should focus on her family. Her sons. She took her family away. She left the village and went to Finland.
I look at the face of my grandfather. His image. His jaw line appears strong. His hair thick and full. His eyes are bright but narrowed. Are they mean? My father says no. His frame is light. I see my son's structure in his. I asked my father if he remembers hugs. Play time. My father's memories are sketchy. He remembers being held after falling off a wagon into horses. He was held and comforted. The gash in his forehead tended to lovingly. My father remembers getting punished with a belt after knocking over a bag of salt that he had been told explicitly not to touch. What memories will I carry with me into old age? What will I discard? What will be taken from me? What will be stolen?
The village where my father came from no longer exists. Its people scattered. Missing. Gone. The language too no longer exists. No longer spoken. No longer heard. I know only a couple words. Out of context. I repeat them in vain. Mayaa. Sayaa. Me. You. I don't know the word for us. The connection to my past is gone. Missing. I am left with only a few clues. A few pieces. A picture. An image. Scattered memories.
When I was in the Sault I examined two pictures in my father's house. They are pictures of his father. My grandfather. I have looked at them in passing over the years. I had never really looked at them in order to see. One of the pictures depicts my grandfather, my grandmother and my uncle posing for the camera. This is the only picture that survived the war. The only picture that exists from the time when my father still resided in the village where he was born. The second picture is of two headshots side by side. One of my grandmother and the second of my grandfather. The picture of my grandfather was taken from the family portrait. There is only one image of my grandfather left. Someone had carefully drawn in a shirt and tie to his headshot. Funny that I only noticed this now. I examined his eyes. Trying to find myself in his face. In the past, I remember looking to my grandmother for this. His face never really drew me in. He seemed inconsequential. I asked my dad about him. Apparently, my grandfather had a reputation of being tough and fair. People looked up to him and followed his lead. When the communists came to their village, he was chosen as a farm leader. A spokesman. The people of the village didn't care much for the communists. To them, communism was an excuse for laziness. One day, my grandfather was taken away by a couple men driving a black car. He was never seen by his family again. He was gone. Missing. My grandmother tried to find him. She searched. She asked questions. She demanded answers. Finally, she was told. She was told to let him go. He was gone. Missing. If she continued, she too would go missing. Be gone. She should focus on her family. Her sons. She took her family away. She left the village and went to Finland.
I look at the face of my grandfather. His image. His jaw line appears strong. His hair thick and full. His eyes are bright but narrowed. Are they mean? My father says no. His frame is light. I see my son's structure in his. I asked my father if he remembers hugs. Play time. My father's memories are sketchy. He remembers being held after falling off a wagon into horses. He was held and comforted. The gash in his forehead tended to lovingly. My father remembers getting punished with a belt after knocking over a bag of salt that he had been told explicitly not to touch. What memories will I carry with me into old age? What will I discard? What will be taken from me? What will be stolen?
The village where my father came from no longer exists. Its people scattered. Missing. Gone. The language too no longer exists. No longer spoken. No longer heard. I know only a couple words. Out of context. I repeat them in vain. Mayaa. Sayaa. Me. You. I don't know the word for us. The connection to my past is gone. Missing. I am left with only a few clues. A few pieces. A picture. An image. Scattered memories.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Passage is the Journey
I love driving. I especially love driving long distances. This is something I didn't really know about myself. I should have. Speed. Music. Meditation. Control. Yes, I do in fact own the road. Deal.
It all came together for me this past weekend. I made a driving cd for myself. Welcome to the 20th century! A good driving cd must take into the account a need for a good rhythm section. The beat has to vary however because too much of the same thing could cause road hypnosis. I am a bit of a classisist at heart so my disc has a good sense of form--kind of an AABBCCAA type of structure. Yes, I am alone a bit too much. Being a bit anal comes naturally.
There is a new overpass leading into the Sault. An American style highway. I don't like it. I was looking forward to passing familiar landmarks. The turn off to camp. The giant Loonie at the side of the road. Shinwauk Hall. The railway bridge that has 'This Is Indian Land' written on it even though for years people have tried to wash it off. It just keeps getting rewritten. It needs to be there. Instead of these signposts leading me home I found myself travelling way too fast, too far from the river, too close to the hills and unable to orient myself. When the highway finally reached the end I was there. In the Sault. I felt cheated. I had missed out.
I started thinking about childhood drives. When my family would travel past Sudbury, we would invariably stop at the Big Nickel and have lunch--smoked whitefish from Clarence's fish and bait shop--and take photos. We would bring visitors there. It was a landmark that everyone stopped at. Yes it was kitsch. It was familiar kitsch. It was a part of our collective experience. The Big Nickel was special. When the new highway was made I remember cheering it. It really did cut the travel time to Ottawa not having to pass through Sudbury. Now I think about what has been lost. I haven't once visited the Big Nickel since the new highway was built. My children have travelled the highway many times and not once have we stopped at what used to be for me a trip highlight. I'm sure it would be a highlight for them too. I can't even see where the Nickel is now from the road. It's like it has disappeared completely.
I have a friend who comes from New Brunswick. When I first visited her, I was in awe that we had to travel over a covered bridge to get to her home. She lived on an island. The bridge was lovely. A few years later when I visited again, we drove past the bridge. A new highway had been built. The old bridge was rarely used. I remember thinking what a shame. When her dad drove me off the island for the last time he turned off the new highway and drove slowly over the bridge. I remember feeling like I could burst out laughing or burst into tears at that moment. I knew that some things would never again be the same. Such is progress?
When I left the Sault yesterday, I made a point of not taking the new highway. I drove over the old path soaking in the landmarks that would be all too soon relegated to history. The beach where we would sneak out to at night with bottles of alcohol and cartons of smokes deftly stolen from our parents' cupboards. The trees that had stood the test of time. Ugly. Knotted. Beautiful. The diner that made the best grilled cheese sandwich I have ever tasted. The bridge separating the reservation from the village. The farms. The cows. The giant Loonie. The river that has always been a part of my life.
Driving home I started to think about how much I enjoyed the travelling. The journey. I also started to think about how much joy I would lose if the journey became sterilized by bypassing all the communities that helped to bring the road to life. The journey is made all the more special because of how the highway connects disparate people. The road shows us how we are all connected even though we stand unique and individual with our Big Nickels, road side blueberry stands, giant apples and the like. The super stops one finds on the larger highways don't have the same heart. A McDonalds grilled cheese will never compare to one made at a small diner in Echo Bay.
Do I want to stop progress? No. Do I want to hold on to the past? Perhaps. More importantly however, is that I want to remember and be reminded how unique we are. In some ways, I believe that it's our differences that bring us closer together. When we strip away our individuality and reveal only what is the same, we become more isolated. Alienated. So far apart from each other that no highway can bridge the distance.
It all came together for me this past weekend. I made a driving cd for myself. Welcome to the 20th century! A good driving cd must take into the account a need for a good rhythm section. The beat has to vary however because too much of the same thing could cause road hypnosis. I am a bit of a classisist at heart so my disc has a good sense of form--kind of an AABBCCAA type of structure. Yes, I am alone a bit too much. Being a bit anal comes naturally.
There is a new overpass leading into the Sault. An American style highway. I don't like it. I was looking forward to passing familiar landmarks. The turn off to camp. The giant Loonie at the side of the road. Shinwauk Hall. The railway bridge that has 'This Is Indian Land' written on it even though for years people have tried to wash it off. It just keeps getting rewritten. It needs to be there. Instead of these signposts leading me home I found myself travelling way too fast, too far from the river, too close to the hills and unable to orient myself. When the highway finally reached the end I was there. In the Sault. I felt cheated. I had missed out.
I started thinking about childhood drives. When my family would travel past Sudbury, we would invariably stop at the Big Nickel and have lunch--smoked whitefish from Clarence's fish and bait shop--and take photos. We would bring visitors there. It was a landmark that everyone stopped at. Yes it was kitsch. It was familiar kitsch. It was a part of our collective experience. The Big Nickel was special. When the new highway was made I remember cheering it. It really did cut the travel time to Ottawa not having to pass through Sudbury. Now I think about what has been lost. I haven't once visited the Big Nickel since the new highway was built. My children have travelled the highway many times and not once have we stopped at what used to be for me a trip highlight. I'm sure it would be a highlight for them too. I can't even see where the Nickel is now from the road. It's like it has disappeared completely.
I have a friend who comes from New Brunswick. When I first visited her, I was in awe that we had to travel over a covered bridge to get to her home. She lived on an island. The bridge was lovely. A few years later when I visited again, we drove past the bridge. A new highway had been built. The old bridge was rarely used. I remember thinking what a shame. When her dad drove me off the island for the last time he turned off the new highway and drove slowly over the bridge. I remember feeling like I could burst out laughing or burst into tears at that moment. I knew that some things would never again be the same. Such is progress?
When I left the Sault yesterday, I made a point of not taking the new highway. I drove over the old path soaking in the landmarks that would be all too soon relegated to history. The beach where we would sneak out to at night with bottles of alcohol and cartons of smokes deftly stolen from our parents' cupboards. The trees that had stood the test of time. Ugly. Knotted. Beautiful. The diner that made the best grilled cheese sandwich I have ever tasted. The bridge separating the reservation from the village. The farms. The cows. The giant Loonie. The river that has always been a part of my life.
Driving home I started to think about how much I enjoyed the travelling. The journey. I also started to think about how much joy I would lose if the journey became sterilized by bypassing all the communities that helped to bring the road to life. The journey is made all the more special because of how the highway connects disparate people. The road shows us how we are all connected even though we stand unique and individual with our Big Nickels, road side blueberry stands, giant apples and the like. The super stops one finds on the larger highways don't have the same heart. A McDonalds grilled cheese will never compare to one made at a small diner in Echo Bay.
Do I want to stop progress? No. Do I want to hold on to the past? Perhaps. More importantly however, is that I want to remember and be reminded how unique we are. In some ways, I believe that it's our differences that bring us closer together. When we strip away our individuality and reveal only what is the same, we become more isolated. Alienated. So far apart from each other that no highway can bridge the distance.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Another Dress Rehearsal
The set revealed itself tonight as a woman giving birth. Birth to a band. Birth to a musical. Birth to a Bat Boy. I mentioned this to the designer. Although it wasn't planned, he was pleased with the outcome -- yet another instance where post justification usurps intent and a new reality is created. Perhaps his sub conscious was guiding the process? Perhaps it was dumb luck? Whatever the cause, the outcome works.
The lighting has moments of beauty. My problem overall with how the piece is lit is that it sways too much between realism and stylization. I think the production would be better off lit in a stylized over the top fashion. It's a musical about a bat boy. I think it's ok to leave realism at the door. The scenes that worked were highly stylized with broad strokes of colour. I believe that the designer was trying for more stylization in other scenes but it needed a bit more ooomph.
When performing music, one needs to be aware that any dynamic changes made need to be exaggerated before they are registered by an audience. One of my favourite examples of this occurred when I was performing at a masterclass. I had a huge crescendo at one point and I thought I had really sold it. When I finished, the person hosting the class mentioned that he felt that a crescendo would really have worked at one point (the point where I had thought I had added one). I had only added enough of a dynamic change to make the listener feel that a change would be needed. This is the feeling I was left with in terms of the lights for this show. The ground work is there but I am left wanting a bit more.
How was the show itself? Entertaining. Yes there are some weaknesses and it probably could use a bit more time to fine tune some details before opening and although I didn't walk away singing any of the tunes (something I find a bit unfortunate but none of the tunes was particulary memorable to me) the show is a campy piece of rollicking fun. It's irreverant -- poking fun at itself and the world around it. The audience will enjoy it.
The lighting has moments of beauty. My problem overall with how the piece is lit is that it sways too much between realism and stylization. I think the production would be better off lit in a stylized over the top fashion. It's a musical about a bat boy. I think it's ok to leave realism at the door. The scenes that worked were highly stylized with broad strokes of colour. I believe that the designer was trying for more stylization in other scenes but it needed a bit more ooomph.
When performing music, one needs to be aware that any dynamic changes made need to be exaggerated before they are registered by an audience. One of my favourite examples of this occurred when I was performing at a masterclass. I had a huge crescendo at one point and I thought I had really sold it. When I finished, the person hosting the class mentioned that he felt that a crescendo would really have worked at one point (the point where I had thought I had added one). I had only added enough of a dynamic change to make the listener feel that a change would be needed. This is the feeling I was left with in terms of the lights for this show. The ground work is there but I am left wanting a bit more.
How was the show itself? Entertaining. Yes there are some weaknesses and it probably could use a bit more time to fine tune some details before opening and although I didn't walk away singing any of the tunes (something I find a bit unfortunate but none of the tunes was particulary memorable to me) the show is a campy piece of rollicking fun. It's irreverant -- poking fun at itself and the world around it. The audience will enjoy it.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Back to Bach
The trick to playing Bach is to trust the notes. You don't need to infuse it with anything. Although technically difficult, if you play the notes clearly and cleanly, the music will be there. In a sense, you almost have to strip away all of your personal affectations until you are left with a stark, humble and often painful honesty.
I once told a man who was to become one of my mentors that I didn't care much for Bach. I was taking private lessons in music theory at the time. The next week when I came for my lesson, this man, my teacher, sat me down with a score -- The Goldberg Variations -- and then pressed play on the cd player he had brought in. As I watched/read/listened to the score unfold before me I was mesmorized. I was taken away. I felt simulataneous joy and heart break. Of course it was Gould. When the music ended, the man took the score from me and informed me that he wouldn't charge me for the lesson. Ironically, I learned more about music on that day than I had during any of the weekly lessons leading up to it.
I have just spent the last two hours reacquainting myself with my guitar. My fingertips on my left hand are sore. Grooved. I have been working on remembering the Prelude for Cello Suite No. 1. It took awhile but my hands remember. It amazes me how my fingers can do things so easily without my consciousness being aware. Instead of focusing on my hands, I am free to sing the music so that I can hear it played the way I know it in my heart.
When I was younger I would watch my mother draw. I yearned with all my heart to be able to draw like she did. She could bring lines on a paper to life. I wanted to be able to draw what I saw in my mind. In my heart. I couldn't. It took a number of years for me to realize that my desire wasn't so much to be able to draw as it was to express myself in such a way as to give a voice to a something larger than myself. A something that couldn't be readily defined. A something that I would occasionally notice out of the corner of my eye when the sun caught the side of a building and a reflection could be seen in a drop of dew. A something that can be revealed when the right shade of light is used to capture an actor's expression on stage. A something that sounds like Bach.
I once told a man who was to become one of my mentors that I didn't care much for Bach. I was taking private lessons in music theory at the time. The next week when I came for my lesson, this man, my teacher, sat me down with a score -- The Goldberg Variations -- and then pressed play on the cd player he had brought in. As I watched/read/listened to the score unfold before me I was mesmorized. I was taken away. I felt simulataneous joy and heart break. Of course it was Gould. When the music ended, the man took the score from me and informed me that he wouldn't charge me for the lesson. Ironically, I learned more about music on that day than I had during any of the weekly lessons leading up to it.
I have just spent the last two hours reacquainting myself with my guitar. My fingertips on my left hand are sore. Grooved. I have been working on remembering the Prelude for Cello Suite No. 1. It took awhile but my hands remember. It amazes me how my fingers can do things so easily without my consciousness being aware. Instead of focusing on my hands, I am free to sing the music so that I can hear it played the way I know it in my heart.
When I was younger I would watch my mother draw. I yearned with all my heart to be able to draw like she did. She could bring lines on a paper to life. I wanted to be able to draw what I saw in my mind. In my heart. I couldn't. It took a number of years for me to realize that my desire wasn't so much to be able to draw as it was to express myself in such a way as to give a voice to a something larger than myself. A something that couldn't be readily defined. A something that I would occasionally notice out of the corner of my eye when the sun caught the side of a building and a reflection could be seen in a drop of dew. A something that can be revealed when the right shade of light is used to capture an actor's expression on stage. A something that sounds like Bach.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Splitting Roles
I'm feeling good. My job, in many respects, puts me in a position wherein I have to train/guide folks. This isn't always easy. I am fully aware of my own limitations in terms of patience, ego and insecurity. I do, however, love a good learning opportunity. I'm constantly learning. Today I fell in love with rosco 378 and a blend of rosco 24 & 27. Nice. I sense a change to my house plot in the near dance future. I also made head way with a young designer who, turns out, has a great deal of potential and, when egos are set aside, is a damn fun person to work with too. There were a couple of amusing bumps:
Him: Can I see your wash colours?
Me: Ok. Here.
Him: Ok. Now I want to see mine.
Me: ??
Him: I'd like to see mine so that I can compare. Bring them up please.
Me: We've only just started the hang. Nothing has been focused. Your colours aren't up in the air yet love.
Him: Ahhh. Got you. Ok. We'll use your wash then.
Me. Ok.
I love pre show energy. I especially love pre show energy when younger folk are involved. There's something to be said for inexperience. They take more chances cuz they don't know that 'things aren't done that way.' Maybe a youth orientated theatre company could fly in this city? Something to mull.
I've started work on the next show. Opera. The director wants to fly a doll house in and have it float 6' above the stage. He asked me if it were possible. I said yes because I totally want to see a floating doll house glowing above my stage. How cool is that? How...How....Opera? I love opera. It's totally garish and over the top. It makes no excuses. It doesn't need any.
*******************************************************************************
The other night I took the kids to a fire station. The girl's Sparks troupe was taking the tour and the boy and I tagged along. I'm a fan of the burly fire fighters. One of the fire fighters asked the group if any of the kids smoked. My girl blurted out 'my daddy smokes.' The fire fighter said, that that was too bad and he wouldn't be able to hang out at the house if someone was smoking. My girl responded, 'that's ok. My daddy doesn't live with us so you can come any time.'
A little later, the same fire fighter asked if the kids knew whether or not their homes had smoke detectors and if they were tested regularly. Once again, my girl raised her hand. 'We have one. It goes off everytime my mommy cooks dinner.'
A mom came up to me and said 'you've been totally outed as a single mom who burns her food.' Sigh.
I've also tried to sew the wee ones' snow pants. I can't justify to myself purchasing new ones this close to winter's end but...my sewing sucks. At least the wee ones are still young enough to think that my frankenstitching is half decent.
Today is the first day of march break. My mom and her fella are driving up from the Sault tomorrow -- I'm a bit more than a wee bit concerned...there's gonna be a huge storm -- and they will take the wee ones back to the Sault with them on Monday. I'll have 3 days kid free. How do I feel about it? The best word would be conflicted. Glad for the break but I'll be missing them. Perhaps though, I will actually make time for me. The non mom non td me. Who is that exactly?
Him: Can I see your wash colours?
Me: Ok. Here.
Him: Ok. Now I want to see mine.
Me: ??
Him: I'd like to see mine so that I can compare. Bring them up please.
Me: We've only just started the hang. Nothing has been focused. Your colours aren't up in the air yet love.
Him: Ahhh. Got you. Ok. We'll use your wash then.
Me. Ok.
I love pre show energy. I especially love pre show energy when younger folk are involved. There's something to be said for inexperience. They take more chances cuz they don't know that 'things aren't done that way.' Maybe a youth orientated theatre company could fly in this city? Something to mull.
I've started work on the next show. Opera. The director wants to fly a doll house in and have it float 6' above the stage. He asked me if it were possible. I said yes because I totally want to see a floating doll house glowing above my stage. How cool is that? How...How....Opera? I love opera. It's totally garish and over the top. It makes no excuses. It doesn't need any.
*******************************************************************************
The other night I took the kids to a fire station. The girl's Sparks troupe was taking the tour and the boy and I tagged along. I'm a fan of the burly fire fighters. One of the fire fighters asked the group if any of the kids smoked. My girl blurted out 'my daddy smokes.' The fire fighter said, that that was too bad and he wouldn't be able to hang out at the house if someone was smoking. My girl responded, 'that's ok. My daddy doesn't live with us so you can come any time.'
A little later, the same fire fighter asked if the kids knew whether or not their homes had smoke detectors and if they were tested regularly. Once again, my girl raised her hand. 'We have one. It goes off everytime my mommy cooks dinner.'
A mom came up to me and said 'you've been totally outed as a single mom who burns her food.' Sigh.
I've also tried to sew the wee ones' snow pants. I can't justify to myself purchasing new ones this close to winter's end but...my sewing sucks. At least the wee ones are still young enough to think that my frankenstitching is half decent.
Today is the first day of march break. My mom and her fella are driving up from the Sault tomorrow -- I'm a bit more than a wee bit concerned...there's gonna be a huge storm -- and they will take the wee ones back to the Sault with them on Monday. I'll have 3 days kid free. How do I feel about it? The best word would be conflicted. Glad for the break but I'll be missing them. Perhaps though, I will actually make time for me. The non mom non td me. Who is that exactly?
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