My Grade 8 Graduation Dress

Tomorrow is grade eight graduation night – one of my favourite nights of the year.  It is always a nostalgic time for me as I remember some of my best years at school. I love grade eight graduation as much (if not more) than the graduating grade eights. It is not as if I completely live in the past, but what is wrong with periodically revisiting the highlights?

Every year at this time, I purchase a new dress for the occasion.  I go to my favourite dress shop downtown and eagerly search for the perfect dress for my (I mean the kids') graduation. My colleagues mostly laugh at me (and surely make fun of me behind my back) but it doesn’t bother me.  I take the time to explain to them that it is a great time to buy a new dress as I (hopefully) have a summer full of occasions I can wear it to.

Last year’s dress was particularly memorable. I found – what I thought – was the perfect number. I must have tried on twenty before making my final decision. It looked great. I took it home, put it in my closet and relaxed knowing I was prepared for my (I mean the kids') big evening. The night of graduation came and I casually started getting ready at 5:45pm for our 7pm start.  I slipped on my dress and headed for the mirror to confirm my excellent choice. I stood in horror looking at the reflection that stared back at me.  Was I wearing beer goggles when I chose this dress?  The fabric clung to every roll, lump and bump I carefully hide every time I get dressed.  I looked awful. Even my husband couldn’t find the right words. It was terrible and by now it was 5:55. F**K!

I dialed the dress shop. I was in a full on sweat.  I knew they closed at 6pm but I was desperate. Sensing my sense of urgency they stayed open for me and were very kind in helping a lunatic on a mission.  I knew I had already tried on many of the dresses in there. Still, I must have tried on twenty more before finding my best option.  I arrived at grad at 6:50pm – the last to arrive. But it was worth it. This year`s dress is a winner (but I am going to try it on one more time tonight to make sure).

A slightly more embarrassing part of my grad night ritual is that I also get my hair styled. Wow. I am actually contemplating deleting this last sentence.  Inevitably I am seated beside one or two girls that I teach and we politely complement each other`s hair.  I have never been good at doing my own hair and this deficiency was highlighted the night of my own grade eight graduation when I burned my chest while attempting to curl my hair – a mark clearly visible in my grad photos.

Graduation night, even if only from grade eight, is a special night. Everyone comes excited to celebrate together and acknowledge what a special time in their lives it is. I know that these kids are on the cusp of becoming young adults. That they are at the precarious time in their lives where they are actually growing up and will soon be saying goodbye to the carefree days of their youth.  High school lies before them and these years will make, or break these kids. I guess there is a part of me that wishes I was their age again, at a time when the decisions I would soon make would shape my life. It`s not that I would change anything. It is just a really amazing time – looking back on it anyway.

It`s funny how we never know how great something is until we are able to look back on it.  It must be because we`re able to forget all the crap and only remember what we want to - the good parts, the highlights.  I am sure my grade eight grad night wasn`t quite as spectacular as I choose to remember, but it doesn`t matter because my past is simply what I make of it.  And it doesn`t hurt that I get to relive my graduation night every single June.

Constructive Criticism – I Don’t Think So

This week`s lifestyle challenge in The Globe and Mail, and I quote, ``Learn to take constructive criticism. Meet up with key people in your private and professional life and ask what you could do better”.  Are they serious?  Well, I for one am out.  I don’t know about you but this is about the last thing my already fragile mental state can handle.  Are they trying to destroy my friendships and get me fired?  Ok, I may be being a little over dramatic but I’ll choose ignorance on this topic any day.

It is a very noble idea. And I’m sure a stronger, more stable and less sensitive person could handle it. I have never said I wasn’t self-aware – I know what many of my many faults are, I just don’t want anyone else telling me. (Side note – when searching for the word faults, my husband asked if I’d like some help identifying what mine are. I didn’t say people didn’t want to tell me what’s wrong with me).  The idea of the challenge is to improve people’s lives but in my inconsistent pursuit of being a better person, I have drawn a definite line.

Why not have a sit down with those closest to me and give them the chance to tell me what they have been holding back for years? Not a chance. Some people may disagree with me and think that this is a great idea. I envy them. I wish I could be like them. But I am just not wired that way.

We all have areas that need work. And usually we either accept the faults in our friends or we move on. Sometimes, in indirect ways, our friends and colleagues drop subtle hints to keep us in line. And don’t we love to talk about other people’s shortcomings? I think we do this because it makes us feel better about ourselves. And sometimes quite frankly, it does. Here’s a good challenge – stop thinking about what other people could do better and try to be better. That, I will attempt.

My Clothesline

If you had told me fifteen years ago that one of the things that would make me happiest in my mid-thirties was a clothesline, I would have told you to kill me now and put me out of my inevitable misery. But it’s true. My clothesline does make me happy. And in a life that some days has me busier than I ever imagined possible, it also offers me a sense of calm and total satisfaction.

Part of the reason I am able to enjoy my clothesline so much is that it is just out of the sight of the kids when they look out the back door to find me.  I can sneak out with a nice full load of laundry and stay out of view just long enough for them to forget about me and go find their dad.  Wow, alone with the laundry – every girl’s dream. 

I sometimes feel very pioneer like when I am out there in nature, the birds chirping around me and our clothes and sheets flapping in the wind.  It’s like I’m connecting with my sisters from simpler days (well, the days weren’t actually so simple because ‘my sisters’ would have first had to wash all of the clothes and sheets by hand). It’s like I’m an environmental crusader, doing my part to save the earth by not using my dryer from June until August. 

I love that by the time I hang the basket of laundry, it has already started to dry. I love the smell of my sheets.  I love that everything is just a little crunchy and has those clothespin marks in them – no – I don’t really love those things about hanging my clothes but nothing is perfect.  

I grew up with a clothesline in our backyard. I remember its rusting, white posts and I don’t really recall much laundry being hung on besides the odd, damp beach towel. An unused clothesline is just wasted potential – a wasted opportunity to experience one of the simplest pleasures in life. 

Like I said, I would have been devastated to have been told in my twenties that I would find happiness in a clothesline. But out in my backyard, hiding from my kids on a sunny day and hanging my underwear for all my neighbours to see is truly a beautiful thing.

Are You Kidding Me???

One day I may thank my children for the abundance of material they provide for my writing. But right now, it seems as if I am a part of some elaborate practical joke meant to test the limits of my sanity. This weekend was no exception. 

On Friday, I returned home from a four day class trip to Quebec City. It was a fantastic and nostalgic trip as I can vividly remember my own grade eight trip there some twenty years ago.  But I was only home for a pit stop and after arriving home late Friday night, I was off to Toronto by noon on Saturday. 

Moments before we were to get into the car, my youngest decided to play with the toilet. Any parent who has ever been busy knows that an occupied child, whatever they may be doing, is a beautiful thing. Our toilet however, has been acting up, and I should have known better. I heard the toilet flush once and then again and I looked over just in time to see the water pouring over the side of the bowl and flowing like a river to the other end of the bathroom.  A master under pressure, I began screaming and wasn’t sure whether to save the laundry basket or the child first. I went for the basket and then scooped up the misfit.  I then grabbed all of our shower towels and threw them on the toilet water. Gross.  Will they ever truly be clean again?

I then had to get on my hands and knees to try and sop up as much ‘water’ as I could.  I was now sweating as well.  Great.  I couldn’t be bothered to get out the mop (I’m not even sure I know where it is) and I was tempted to just walk away. But then I saw the Chlorox Wipes and figured they were as good as anything.

Fast forward to the drive home where I took an hour detour to avoid a probably 20 minute delay due to an accident. My navigational skills are questionable on a good day and I wasn’t really in the mood for a scenic tour around the Niagara Escarpment but that is exactly what I got. This hiccup can’t be blamed on the kids but I thought I’d throw it in for good measure.

Back at home, I was trying to catch up on a week’s worth of work. The girls were in our bedroom and I had given the youngest my nail polish to play with. I know, what was I thinking? From downstairs I could hear her banging them together. I went up and asked her, a two year old, to be careful. Am I out of my mind? A complete idiot could see where this was going. But, happy that she was still occupied, I went back downstairs to carry on with my jobs.  Not more than 30 seconds later Mia called for me to come fast.  My body moved toward the stairs but my mind was telling me to run anywhere but my bedroom.  When I got to my room, I saw what I knew I would see…I just wasn’t sure in what colour. 

There on my white carpet, only feet from the poo stain was an entire bottle of bright pink nail polished smashed on the floor.  There was no reaction from me - just a long, defeated sigh. I am officially numb to any destruction my children can cause.  I knew there would be no way to clean this up. I gave it a futile effort but I only made it worse.  This time the babe looked up and kept telling me, “Clean it up! Clean it up!”

I decided to have a shower as I was sweating (again) and I reeked of nail polish remover. Yes, I dumped buckets of nail polish remover on my carpet.  While in the shower, my older daughter came barging in with my crying two year old to tell me she had fallen down the stairs. Seriously people – I’m not making this shit up.

I have included pictures this time as proof of the incident. As you can see, my efforts to clean up only made it worse. I am now in the market for an area rug.  Lucky for me, I don’t think I’ll ever run out of things to write about.

The Crime Scene...

 My failed attempt at cleaning it up...

 The perpetrator...