Slowly Recovering...

My weekend with the boys was underwhelming to say the least.  Don't get me wrong, I love seeing them and I love having them here and I love spending time with them, but all three of us were battling our health issues this weekend.  Poor little Gerry has a cold sore that's bothering him and a rash on the back of his legs.  I may as well slathered that kid in medicinal cream.  And Nick had a funky looking welt on his upper arm that he couldn't stop scratching.  This thing was massive, about the size of a quarter, swollen and an angry red colour.  He showed me and it did not look right.  I texted the ex, who didn't answer, and I made the decision to take Nick to the emergency room after he told me there was a kid in his class who had chicken pox.  I dropped Gerry off with Gina, the Chilean woman who lives next door to me and her daughter Carly (so named because she's an 11 year old dead ringer for the star of that show iCarly) and took Nick to emergency.

They had us in isolation because of Nick's exposure to chicken pox, and we waited for about an hour when the doctor (who was, frankly, a smarmy jackass) told me he didn't know what it was, but it was probably a reaction to something that touched his skin, and some hydro-cortisone cream would probably take care of the itching.  We went home, stopping for ice cream and horsing around in the parking lot being silly the way you can only be when you're six years old.

I picked up Gerry from Gina's and Gerry did NOT want to go.  He was playing with Carly in the living room, dancing to some pop music and squealing with laughter.  Gerry had a king-sized meltdown in the living room, and I just had to throw him over my shoulder and carry him out.

Nick's spot went away soon enough, but poor Gerry's bum was raw and red and covered with a rash.  He took it in stride, but he wasn't comfortable at all.  Nick was bummed again that Gerry was taking more of my attention again, although it wasn't as bad as the last time they were over.  Telling Nick that Gerry was only a year and a half and needed more attention wasn't very consoling.  And frankly, I wasn't feeling so hot either.  After a lazy weekend, I dropped them off, had my customary Sunday night beer at the local pub, but cut it short, feeling like dinner wasn't sitting right in my gut.

I got in, wrote a couple of emails and went to bed.  Woke up at 2:30 in a cold sweat, needing to throw up RIGHT NOW.  I ran to the can, barely making it before the fireworks began.  I'm not a graceful vomiter.  It amazes me how some people can puke almost nonchalantly and with little mess and drama.  I sweat.  I heave.  My eyes water.  I fight every single convulsion.  It seems to go on and on and on.  And it did.  By the time I cleaned up, had a few sips of water, and dared to go back to bed it was 4 am.  And then I was in the nether region of being too early to wake up and too late to really fall back asleep.  So I lay awake and stared at the ceiling, debating whether or not I should phone in sick.  Money's tight right now, and I really shouldn't, but if I'm running to the bathroom every 15 minutes in a cold sweat, they'll probably send me home anyway, and I can probably make up time down the road.

Screw it... I'm sick.  I call and leave a message.  But I didn't get back to sleep.  I wrote a lengthy piece on another, unrelated blog, watched some Youtube and Channel Awesome videos and sat in the tub reading, too bored to laze around the apartment, but still too blah to go out and do something.  I didn't eat at all yesterday, and nerved myself to have a can of soup this morning with no ill effects.

I go back into work this morning, and of course there is panic that I wasn't there yesterday.  I work as an estimator in a construction supply outfit that supplies material to most of the city's major builders.  My main area of expertise is roofing, drywall and insulation, but I'm also managing a co-worker's accounts while he is on vacation, so the other people in my office are hard-pressed to know how to cope if all of the sudden I'm not there as well.  My workmate Stan, who I've been partnered with since the day I started there almost had a fit and left because he got stuck wearing both hats yesterday.  It took me most of the day to smooth things over, but it was okay.  I find myself in a perfect state of Zen nowadays, where work was once a gigantic source of stress now barely stresses me out, even though our industry has taken an economic beating in the past year.  All I can do is shrug I guess.  I can still work a shovel, if I need to.

I feel somewhat better, but I have nothing that resembles an appetite right now.  I ate a little bit of noodles and chicken, but it feels like a swallowed a brick.  It's okay.  With the money tight I could stand to do a little Spartan living right now.  No beer for a while.  No potato chips.  No fast food.  Until I get back into fighting shape.

PW Judges Other Parents... Comes Out on Top, And Other Observations

I've taken Nick to the Children's Museum three times in his life.  It is okay.  A little underwhelming to be honest, considering they recently did a multimillion dollar overhaul to the place and it cost $10 per ticket, which considering what they have to offer is about double what it should be.  But Nick absolutely loves it there.  Almost anything else we do can't hold his attention for more than an hour, but turn him loose in the museum and he's good for four hours or more.  As far as I'm concerned, it's money well spent.  After all, the museum isn't designed for me.  Who cares if I like it?

I'm watching Nick play on one of the play structures sitting beside some wealthy suburban mom who looks and is dressing like she belongs at a wine and cheese thing rather than an outing with her kid.  I've got no eye for fashion but I'm positive her designer jeans and shirt cost more than my entire wardrobe.  She sniffs, yes, she actually sniffs and turns to me, looking me up and down in my thrift store jeans, Newcastle United jersey and Jesse Eisenberg Social Network hoodie and says "It's awfully cold in here, don't you think?"

I'm never cold.  In fact, the only time I turn the heat on in my apartment is when the boys are here.  So maybe I'm the wrong guy to ask.  I look around.  It's an old brick building, so yeah, I can see it being cold.  "Yeah, I guess so... that's why I got a sweater on."

"Oh I don't have a sweater.  You can't wear a sweater with this."  She waves a dismissive hand at her outfit.  Before I catch myself I blurt out "Why not?"  I was legitimately puzzled.

She put on a phony, condescending smile and decided to enlighten me that this wasn't the sort of outfit you wore a sweater with.

Oh I see I thought to myself, well then, just freeze lady.  What I actually say is "well, I guess they figured the kids are running around all day and would be warm, so they keep the heat down."

"Can't they think about the parents?  You know, the ones who are actually buying the tickets?"  Not a trace of humour or irony.  I am literally speechless.


I thought she was going to keep talking, but her little boy came running up to her dragging her by the arm to go see the inside of the train again.  Again, without a trace of joy or amused irony she drones at her boy, stone-jawed:

"Oh God Jeffery, not the train again... anything but the train again."

Thank God I don't have to talk to her again... thanks a lot kid.  I'm pretty sure the feeling was mutual.  As her kid is leading her away, I glance down at her feet.

She's wearing heels.  She's actually wearing heels.  Oy.

Not ten seconds later, another little boy and her mom show up.  This one I'm going to dub Wal-Mart mom, which I feel bad about because that sounds like a trite bit of classism, but I really don't know what else to say.  She's large and wearing clothes that are way too small for her, with a belly shirt that's cut ridiculously low.  And she insisted on playing in the play structure with her child.  Her boobs fell out of her shirt twice as she was crawling through one of the tubes.  You'd think after the first time, she'd clue in to the notion that maybe she's dressed a little too inappropriately for that kind of play, but no, she goes right on, tugging and adjusting her clothes and stuffing her tits back into her shirt nonchalantly like it happens all the time.  She is constantly yelling at her boy.  I mean constantly.  I'm sure the soundtrack to this kid's life is nothing but his mother yelling at him and constantly making threats to cut off whatever little fun he's having if he doesn't start behaving, except he looks like he's behaving okay to me.

But I try not to judge.  I remember at the lowest point in my old marriage, I was under a lot of stress and pressure that I took out on Nick, even though he was doing nothing wrong.  I felt bad for the little guy and maybe the mom has way too much on her plate.

Nick got off the play structure and tore around the museum, doing each activity for about 5 minutes in fear that he may not get to do them all in 4 hours, and I huffed and puffed to keep up.  There's a little section where kids can play with 8' tall cranes and place building blocks around a mock city.  There Wal-Mart mom and another mom were having a very loud argument about the behaviour of their respective kids.  Nick asked me why they were fighting, to which I could only explain to him that some people don't know how to resolve disputes any other way.

At the craft table, Nick is decorating a paper cup with bits of foam, when one of the dads is having the following conversation on his phone, and I'm paraphrasing only slightly:

"This place is a fucking joke... $10 million dollars went up some guy's fucking nose... what a waste of fucking money this place is..."

This time I'm actually compelled to say something:

"Watch your language, there's kids here.  Take it outside if you're going to yell like that."

He looked up only briefly, twisted his head away from me and wandered off into a hallway. One or two moms thanked me for standing up to him.  I go back to Nick and his paper cup, when I make eye contact with one of the moms.  I do a double take and see she's still looking at me.  Wow, she is CUTE!  I make eye contact with her a few more times until she gives me an unspoken look that says, I'm flattered that you think I'm cute, and heck, I think you're kind of cute too, but I'm taken and/or not interest, so let's go our separate ways, ok?  


With a hint of a smile, of course.  Dang.  I'm supposed to be spending my day with Nick, not cadging the museum looking for dates anyway.

Nick goes back to the play structure and starts playing with a little red-haired Irish princess of a girl.  I'm so glad Nick makes friends so naturally and easy.  In most ways, we are identical but I was painfully shy as long as I can remember and Nick can integrate himself into just about any situation.  In the play structure with the little girl is the girl's hippie earth parents in identical wool sweaters and caps, literally hovering over their girl and following her everywhere she goes.

I have to admit I used to be a hoverer until I forced myself to stop.  Now I watch Nick from a distance, keeping an eye on him in case he gets too far out of line and needs some guidance, but allowing him some breathing space to do his thing.   Most parents around me now are hoverers.  Some still expect the staff to look after their kids... after all, what is that $10 for anyway?  I give Nick some freedom, but he knows I'm still there.  Actually, he's the one who wants me close.  If that were me at his age, I would be breaking my arm to get away, if that's what it took.

We wander around some more and the earth hippie parents are still joined at their kid's hip.  I keep bumping into the CUTE! mom and she gives me a cursory glance before making a point of not looking in my direction.  Wal-Mart mom is managing to simultaneously argue with another parent and yell at her child and I quietly wonder in that perfect storm of WTF what other parents think of me.  Am I one of the majority who are okay, or am I the one where the other parents look at each other and roll their eyes.  And why do I care?  It's funny, because I do care.  I shouldn't.  I know I shouldn't.

Parenting is one of the biggest, fiercest competitions around and as much as people say they're aren't in that mindset, at least a part of them is.  You want to be a good parent in the eyes of other parents.  You need to be a good parent in the eyes of other parents.  This was an eye-opener for me, because my parents were the least competitive parents I've probably ever come across.  My parents are throwbacks from a bygone era to be sure, so that's probably got a lot to do with it.  My parents never took me anywhere growing up.  They never once took me to the museum, or the carnival when it came to town, or the circus or to a sporting event.    Dad took me to two movies until I was old enough to go on my own, and that was because he was in the doghouse big time with mom.  We never, ever went on a family vacation until mom took me to England when I was 12 and we've never been on one since.  And the concept of parenting based on the judgments of others would have been alien to them.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not by any means complaining about that.  For all the experiences I missed out doing what many other families did, I more than made up for being an 8 year old with a bike and whole unstructured days to explore.  Given a choice between that and having my life micromanaged by some anal striving parent, give me free roam any day.  But it would have been nice to have my parents involved on some level. My mom rarely went out in public because she suffered from panic attacks, and my dad just didn't swing that way.  But I more or less turned out fine.  They were generally good folks with a few issues that got the better of them.  This clashes so fundamentally with my ex's parents, who have to be intimately involved in every aspect of their child's and grandchildren's lives, it borders on the suffocating.

Like a lot of things that have hung me up in the past though, I've learned to be comfortable with my parenting, and I think I'm a good dad to my boys.  Not by any means perfect, but good.  And they'll go through their phases where they hate dad because he left home, but ultimately they will understand.  And I'm fine with that.

-PW

Nick

I have two sons.  One is Gerry, and he is turning two in April.  The other one is Nick and he is six.  It is not my weekend to have my kids over, but Nick wanted to come over by himself this weekend.  Annie, my ex and her fiancee actually turfed their plans so Nick could be with me this weekend.  I was shocked to say the least, but if you read the last post, Gerry is starting to enter the terrible twos and is taking up a lot of my attention, of which Nick did not get a lot of.  Nick wanted this weekend to be a strictly one-on-one father and son weekend.  Suits me.  It's going to be a lot of Star Wars and soccer and hockey and skating and laying around in our underwear and watching Youtube videos.

I've alluded to the fact that Nick has had (and continues to have) a tough time since I left in August of 2010.  He didn't take me leaving very well, although it did take a while to sink in.  For months, he kept hope that I'd return home and mommy and I would resume our life as it had been.  Once he was reasonably certain that wasn't going to happen, he became very angry with me and often refused to see me, or threw fits until I left.  This was a dark and difficult time in our relationship.  Nick's school division counselor recommended that we remain firm and steadfast that we spend time with each other on a regular basis, but that was easier said than done.  There were times I'd pick up Nick to spend time with him, and he'd flop on the sidewalk and scream for an hour.  It was frustrating and exhausting and never was I angrier at Annie for doing what she did.  And I'm not certain what Annie (and more especially Annie's mom) was telling him about me

It was this past June when things started getting better between us.  He got off his chest everything that he felt he needed to keep from me; the affair that Annie was having that he was a witness of, being friends with the guy's little boy (which he never did see again) and all of that.  It came out of him like a flood, and I could tell he felt hugely relieved to be unburdened by it.  Slowly, he started to warm up to me and now we get along fine.

My mom says how much he reminds her of me when I was his age.  I can see that.  We look almost identical and he often slips into flights of imagination that I was prone to.  Imagine Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes was a real little boy and you have Nick.  Sometimes he can be absolutely irritating.  He can get lost in his own imagination, just like Calvin and there are literally times I have to clap my hands in front of his face to get him back to reality.  And there are times where he's doing something wrong and he will literally not stop until you have to physically remove him from the situation.  A couple of years ago, I caught him pouring all our bottles of soap and conditioner and lotions down the sink.  I told him to stop.  He wouldn't.  I carried him out of the bathroom and he ran back in to do it again.  He had no clue why we would have a problem with this.

He's really sensitive and does not take criticism well.  He's also prone to being overly dramatic especially when he's under pressure.  He used to have occasional meltdowns, but now he just shuts down and goes inside himself when his feelings are hurt.  He'll mumble into his chest and stare at his feet, sometimes for an hour or more.  He'll never discuss why he's upset in the moment.  This concerns me, but I've learned not to push the issue immediately and he'll usually talk about it in his next visit.

He's far more adept at math than I was at his age, but not much of a reader.  He loves being read to, but does not read himself, whereas I couldn't wait to start reading my own books.  He loves puzzles and chess, and has a much more natural feel for the game than I did at his age, although he still feels the need to 'play silly' once in a while, where he moves twice, or the king can move like a queen etc.  I'm putting him into scholastic chess next year, despite Annie's reservations.

Despite his generally introverted nature, he makes friends far more easily and naturally than I ever did.  He's one of the more popular boys in his class, which I never was.  When I take him to the playground, he can make friends almost instantly which I could never do.

Annie's getting remarried in a couple of years, but her fiancee is living with her and her family now.  I've met the guy, and I actually work with one of his friends, and all indications seem to say that he's a decent fellow and will be a good stepdad for Nick.  Nick tells me he doesn't like him, but I think Nick is trying to protect my feelings and he really does like him.  It's not easy having another person fill in for the role of dad because you're not there, no matter why I left.  Nick needs stability now more than anything (which is why I didn't like the idea of shared custody, where he's literally splitting his time between two places) and I hope if this guy is going to be in Nick's life, Annie doesn't fuck this one up, although I have serious doubts about that considering Annie is in serious denial about our split in the first place.  I don't know too much about the situation, but I think theirs is a marriage of convenience more than anything.  She needs someone to take care of her, and he needs a mother for his two year old.  I'm not sure this makes a solid foundation for marriage, but perhaps I'm wrong.  I do know that if another guy splits because of Annie's nonsense, it will probably irreparably damage his relationship with his mom.  As it stands, she is already in heaps of denial about what Nick knows about her past affair and I have a feeling things will come to a head later in Nick's life.  My father witnessed his mom's affair when he was a little boy, and she died before he could tell her how it made him feel, how much pressure it put on him, and the secret he had to keep from his father until the day my grandfather died at the age of 93 last year.  It exacted a gigantic emotional toll on my dad, which he dealt with primarily by spending 50 years slowly drinking himself to death.  The thing is, Annie did pretty much the exact same thing, all the while knowing about my dad and what happened to him.

Anyway, Nick is pulling at my arm to get off the computer.  We are planning a trip to the Children's Museum  this afternoon before I take him home.  We got a long day ahead of us and I want to squeeze every last childish, lazy drop out of it.  Take care.

-PW

My Weekend With the Boys #4

I roll over and look at the clock.  6:20 in the morning.  And Gerry isn't up yet.  Wow.  Usually he's poking me in the face and chattering away with a big smile as if to day come on daddy!  There's sooooo much to do today!

I get up and put the coffee on.  I guess Gerry was awake after all and was waiting for me to get up because I turn around and he's in the kitchen, right behind me, laughing his devious 'I'm sneaky Daddy!' laugh while I pretend to be annoyed and chase him down the hallway and give him tickles and belly raspberries while he squeals with delight.

As usual, the ex dropped off the boys Friday night after work.  They are both getting more and more excited to come over, which is awesome since for the longest time after we split, Nick didn't want to come over at all, let alone spend the night.  And the entire weekend?  Forget it.  So it's been a long, arduous journey to reach this stage, and more than likely, he may decide to go back to not wanting to spend time with me, so I'm grateful for every eager weekend he spends with me.

I fix Gerry some oatmeal, which he usually loves, but Saturday he just kind of sniffed at it, shook his head emphatically and said "nonono" a few times.  Sigh, I hope he's not going off oatmeal already.  He didn't seem to want anything, so I let him slide until Nick got up and I made us all scrambled eggs, which Gerry wolfed down like he hadn't eaten in ages.  Good enough for me.  Nick always did eat like a bird, picking at his food, pushing it around the plate, eating a half-bite every minute, hoping against hope that I dismiss him from the breakfast table, which I eventually do.

We mostly draw pictures on Gerry's new easel I got him for Christmas, while an Elmo DVD plays in the background.  Nick loves drawing and Gerry's right in there too, but I eventually had to take away the markers and crayons because Gerry would not stop drawing on anything other than paper and in the last month or so he's been starting to get really defiant with telling him things.

I put Gerry down for a nap close to lunch time, but he will not sleep for more than 5 minutes.  I can always get him to sleep by running my fingers through his hair and then lightly stroking his cheek, and if that doesn't work then I very gently stroke the bridge of his nose from the eyebrow to the tip.  That NEVER fails; he WILL be out like a light, provided he's sleepy to begin with.  But not Saturday.  After battling to get him to sleep, I give up and let him out of his room.  I make macaroni and cheese for lunch and then we bundle up and head over to the community club to skate.  Nick's been dying to skate since I got him skates for Christmas.  We get there, and I get the boys inside so Nick can get his skates on, and all of the sudden, Gerry decides he's tired and cranky and it's ALL DADDY'S FAULT!  He throws a giant, 1000 megaton kicking and screaming fit right inside the community club and he will not be consoled.  Gerry has done this maybe one other time, and I am not impressed.

Nick's waiting for me to take him to the rinks, but I tell him to go ahead and I'll see him out there.  He sighs and insists I come out with him now to which I snap back (a little too harshly) that I can't right this second, and he needs to just get started.  Now.  He trundles off, clearly disappointed, but he'll shake it off soon enough.

I finally get Gerry calmed down and outside with me and I try to give Nick a few pointers with his skating as he is still just learning, but he is getting more and more frustrated every time he falls.  I'm afraid I don't have much advice to give him unless I have skates on of my own.  I started skating almost instantly and naturally since I was 4.  I don't think I've skated in about 5 years, and I pick it up again just like that.  It's hard for me to explain to him what to do.  It's like explaining to someone step by step how to walk.  You can kind of do it, but it feels really awkward to say.

Gerry will not stop fussing and crying.  I put him down on the ice and he immediately makes a beeline for the pucks the other boys are playing with.  I'm chasing him around the rink, making sure he's not disrupting the other kids' play.  Nick desperately wants to show off to me, but I'm preoccupied with Gerry.  Nick's getting really upset.  Gerry's getting really upset.  My nerves are getting frayed.  It's getting cold outside.  After only 20 or so minutes, we all decide to head home.  We stop of at one of the corner stores in my neighbourhood and I let Nick get some ice cream to kind of make up for the bust of an afternoon we had.  I get some powdered cocoa too so we can make hot chocolate when we get in.

We get home, I chase Gerry around to get him undressed, put water on for the hot chocolate and check on the roast chicken I have in the slow cooker.  It seems to be doing very well.  I whip up some hot chocolate and give Nick his mug along with his ice cream and finally, things seem to calm down.  Gerry flaked out a half-hour earlier than his bedtime, and Nick and I amuse ourselves with Youtube and video games while munching on popcorn.

Sunday was pretty much more of the same.  We watched Newcastle United minus their star African players beat a very limp Queen's Park Rangers 1-0 in front of a subdued St. James' Park crowd.  Gerry whined and fussed and clung onto me.  I took the boys to the park and Gerry whined and fussed and clung onto me.  We drew and coloured.  We watched Finding Nemo.  I read to them and Nick read to Gerry and Gerry fussed and whined.  I tried to occupy Gerry with about a dozen different things, but he wasn't having any of it.  And as much as I hate to admit it, I was kind of glad Gerry was going home on Sunday.  My nerves were rubbed raw, and I could have used some help with him.  And as I type that, I'm stabbed with pangs of guilt, but it was how I felt nonetheless.  And I got short with Nick a lot more than I should have, because he so desperately wanted my time and attention, and I had precious little of it to give.  Just a frustrating weekend all around.

As the van door closed, Gerry looked over to me and smiled, put his hand to his mouth and make a blowing kiss gesture.  Nick didn't want anyone to know that he hugs me and tells me he misses me and loves me, so he doesn't say anything, pretends I'm not there.  The van drives away and tears are welling up in my eyes, but I hold off the waterworks.  I hold their faces in my memory and spend the rest of the evening looking at old pictures of them while having one or two beer too many.

The apartment is way too quiet now.

PW Babbles Too Much About Politics

Ahh, I'm back in the virtual world after two days sans cable and internet.  The technician they sent out referred to the root of the problem as a "rotten wire" that he replaced.  Ah, those techies and their technobabble... anyway...

Maria (whose blog you should make time to read, incidentally) was kind enough to post a comment in my last post

I'm curious. Ron Paul is a Republican and fairly conservative. Not sure why you used the word "liberal" regarding his followers. I've watched every single Republican debate (know thine enemies) and I honestly dislike ALL of them, especially Gingrich and Romney. I am intrigued by Ron Paul's statements about racial slurs in his newsletters a couple decades ago. That matters to me since I tend to believe that once you're a racist, you rarely change your mind. I honestly cannot fathom any of these candidates as being worthy of president. So, sticking with Obama. I think he has been unfairly maligned. I compare it to buying a house. If you buy a house in disrepair, it takes time to fix everything. And if all the carpenters, plumbers and electricians refuse to help you, you have your work cut out for you. That is how I see Obama's presidency. He inherited a mess from Bush and the Republicans in the house and senate refuse to lift a finger to help him clean it up. So,he is handicapped. But, I still like him. Plus, I'm in the medical profession and I FULLY support his health care plan. It astonishes me that NO ONE seems to be able to see the big picture regarding health care.

Ok...off my soap box. Carry on!

Sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest that Ron Paul supporters are liberals.  If it came out that way, I apologize.  I write these blog posts (and especially this past one) shooting from the hip and spend minimal time revising them and making them… you know… concise.  

What I was driving at was that while the majority of Paul’s support is the “libertarian” (and I use those quotes deliberately) wing of the Republican party, Paul’s campaign has managed to dupe a significant minority of progressives, mainly due to his opposition of the war in Iraq and to a lesser degree, his stance on legalizing marijuana.  In my post specifically, I was agreeing with a piece written on CBS.com by the Nation’s Katha Pollitt (which I probably should have linked to).  And even as I write this, there’s a piece in the Atlantic: Should Liberals Support Ron Paul? by Robert Wright.  I’m not suggesting that too many liberals would vote for the guy, but it seems that a lot of people on forums, in conversation etc. hold Paul up as an example of a Republican of principle, which drives me nuts when one takes a cursory glance at his stance on most issues.  Get past the war and pot, and he’s the most toxically conservative candidate out there.  Don’t get me wrong, Paul should be lauded for liberal stances when he takes them.  But they should not overshadow his stances on just about everything else.  And I agree, a racist doesn't change their spots, at least not without a lot of inner soul-searching and struggling with their thoughts, and something tells me that behind closed doors, Paul is very comfortable with racism.

I wholeheartedly agree with you about Obama.  Anyone would have a tough time repairing the damage the Bush administration caused, even with everyone’s full cooperation, let alone the open hostility that Obama has faced.  That’s not to say he hasn’t made mistakes.  He has… but it seems to me that for the majority of his first term, the people voted, dusted off their hands and said to themselves ‘well that takes care of that’ and left him to do his thing.  If Obama let his liberal base down, then to be fair, a lot of his liberal base let him down too.  They forgot the ‘we’ part of Yes We Can.

Yeah, yeah, I know easier said than done, and I sound like a scolding ass, especially in 2009 a LOT of people were more concerned with keeping their heads above water and food on the table than anything else.  Who has that kind of time?  But I think we really failed (I’m talking to Canadians now too, as we STILL have a right-wing tool leading our country, and with a majority in parliament to boot) to take the lessons of Bush-era politics that democracy doesn’t end at the voting booth.  It’s heartening to see things like the Wisconsin union protests and the Occupy movement because at least progressive issues are getting in the news, and sometimes even without a dismissive sneer.  They aren’t instantaneous results, but it’s a step.  And that’s the point.  Progress doesn’t come in gigantic leaps.  They come in steps.  Small steps.  Tiny steps.  Steps virtually anyone can do, even without a lot of time and money.  Enough people do them and the ball rolls.  The key is that those steps need to be consistent ones. 

I don’t see why or how anyone can vote Republican, or at least this modern incarnation of the Republican Party (my knowledge of the Republican Party of years past is sketchy at best).  I’m not strictly talking policy, although I do find their policy hard to swallow.  I’m talking heart – Republican politicians have such an open and naked contempt for people, they barely even disguise it anymore.  I guess it appeals to people who feel the need for self-flagellation, who feel frustrated and unworthy, and blame themselves for the situation they find themselves in.  It also doesn’t surprise me that the main Republican target is ‘government’, which neatly attacks the one institution in society that the public have a measure of power in.  And so many people are willing to believe that ‘government is the problem’ (whatever that means) without once realizing that they, as citizens in a democratic country, are part of the government they despise so much.  And not one of their supporters questions why, if Big Government is so bad, are their leaders more than happy to be a part of it?  It is a living, breathing example of Orwellian doublethink so hideously perfect that I used it when my neighbour’s daughter was having trouble understanding the concept when she was studying 1984 in school.

I do have ties to the United States, as my brother, my sister-in-law and their two kids live in the States, so I hope they choose politicians that don’t openly hate them because they are concerned and compassionate people that would like to live in a country where people look after each other, and not be hysterically labeled socialists because of it.  It seems to me, as an outsider looking in, there’s a lot of needless and confusing fear-mongering in American politics, and it’s something that most non-Americans have a hard time wrapping our minds around.  It not like racism, class divisions, homophobia, fear, mistrust, poverty and crime doesn’t exist here or in other countries.  It all certainly does.  But we somehow manage not to assume a worst-case scenario mentality about things.  More than a few people grumbled when we legalized same-sex marriages, but most of us were leveled-headed enough to be sure that a one-way vortex to hell wasn’t going to open up beneath our feet, that it wasn’t a life-or-death issue.  As we all found out quickly enough, gays and lesbians getting married became background scenery in our national psyche.  It arrived and we did not become Sodom or Gommorah.  Now, apart from a handful of fundamentalist crackpots, it doesn’t even register for most people, liberal or conservative.  I don’t know, but I think that’s what scares conservative politicians the most – the realization that all of us aren’t so much different from one another and we do have far more common ground than we realize.  I think that is the real opposition to social issues.  It isn't a question of morality for them.  It's a fear of the truth that despite our differences in race, gender and orientation, we are more or less the same when it comes to basic human wants and needs.  We want good jobs, safe streets, warm houses to go home to and loving people to share it all with.

Okay, this is why I don’t blog politics.  I get a teensy bit long-winded and get way off topic and my wagging finger gets tired.  I’m having a beer, a nap and then I'm going to a friend's acoustic show at the local pub, and she is going to ROCK!  Later.

- PW

Random Things That That I’ve Encountered Recently

Once in a while, I haven’t got anything substantial to talk about and I just need to ‘clear the deck’ so to speak.

 …I’m on the bus to work and I overhear some woman talking on her cell phone about relationships.  She tells her friend on the other end she’s still single because she has no inclination to ‘train a man’.

Ugh.  I can’t tell you how much that phrase annoys me.  I even caught my sister, who is the smartest and most enlightened person I know using this phrase.  You train dogs.  Not human beings…

…if I’m shopping and you are blocking the ENTIRE aisle with your shopping cart and your body, I will ask you politely to make some room to let me by.  If you ignore me I will take your cart and push it to one side (unless you have children in your cart) so I can get by.  And don’t give me that look, like your personal space is being violated.  The trolley belongs to the store, your items haven’t been paid for and maybe next time, you’ll leave some space for others to get by…

…while we are in the grocery store, stop yelling at the cashier like they are the CEO of the company with the capacity to make policy decisions.  The cashier is there to… cashier.  Ring up your purchases and take your money, and generally get paid very poorly to do it.  That’s it.  Which is very hard for them to do when you’re holding things up. 

This is the correct way to handle things:  Ring your things up, pay, and then ask to speak to someone in charge, that you have a complaint and you would like to discuss it with him/her.  Be firm, but civil.  Do not swear or name-call.  And then stand to one side while the rest of us can buy our stuff and be on our way.  We aren’t on your side.  We want to get home.

…Newcastle United has a thing for last-second heroics in domestic Cup ties.  Since the game wasn’t televised, I had to settle for highlights, which included this Messi-esque surge from Hatem Ben Arfa against Blackburn Rovers…

…I was a little discouraged to read an article in the Guardian about the waning popularity of the FA Cup in England.  Dear England… you do not know what you have.  I wish that North America had the equivalent in whatever sport (baseball would be the most practical, but I’d love to see an FA Cup-style tournament in hockey).  For those not in the know, the FA (Football Assocation) holds an annual domestic cup tournament open to all Football League Teams, and the five tiers below the Football League (which comprises I think 26 separate leagues,  please feel free to correct me if I’m wrong) and selected teams from tier 6.  This season 763 teams entered the tournament.

Most of the lower level teams fall by the wayside in qualifying rounds.  Those that survive enter the first round proper with the bigger teams.  You have some interesting match-ups and some giant-killing moments.  There is no seeding and draws are done at complete random.  This year’s 3^rd round pitted #1 Manchester City against #2 Manchester United.

Last year Crawley Town, a small 5^th league team from West Sussex survived to the 5^th round where they played Manchester United, the then #1 team in English football.  The equivalent would be some obscure single A baseball team in rural Illinois going to Yankee Stadium to play the Yankees.  And they lost, but didn’t get embarrassed.  The score was only 1-0.  United striker and resident hothead Wayne Rooney and his £250,000 a week salary pitted against Sergio Torres and his £620 a week salary.  It wasn’t a barnstormer by any means, but it wasn’t a snoozer either.  I’d love to see more of this in sports…

…if you are in my office and there is a small period of silence, do not feel the need to fill up that silence with whistling, humming, small talk or (especially) drumming your fingers.  While you are drumming your fingers, I am fantasizing about breaking those fingers one by one.  Stay still Mr. McFigdetpants.  It’s silence.  Enjoy it.  There’s not a lot of it around…

           

…I usually stay out of politics, and especially politics of other countries, but to all those liberals who are grooving on Ron Paul:  read up on his frigging political positions!...

…I usually grow a winter beard, but it’s been so unseasonably warm that I’m thinking of shaving it.  But of course, the moment I shave it, the temperature will plummet.  I know it’s all in my head, but this year I’m not taking any chances…

…Dear advertisers: yes.  I’m a man.  Like many men, I like beer and tits and sports.  You got me.  But for God’s sake, there’s a little more to me than that.  Stop covering up how poorly you portray women in ads by casting men as slow-witted and useless and needing women to cheerfully and uncomplainingly clean up after us and/or prevent us from swallowing our tongues.  I’ve spent more than a few years looking after myself without being mothered by a woman, and have done pretty good for myself.  Two wrongs do not make a right…

…Another sign I’m getting older:  When out for a run, I take my cell with me, even though it’s a pain in the ass.  Just in case…

…My foot is still causing me a lot of bother the day after I run.  In the back of mind, I’m afraid that I won’t be able to play soccer anymore.  Of course, I was thinking three months ago that I’ll always walk with a limp and two months before that, I’ll be walking with a cane at the age of 35.  No more self-whammies, I’ll be just fine…

There.  The deck is a little emptier.  Talk soon.

Separate Ways

I’m going to do something soon that I’ve only done a handful of times in my life, and it’s something that I absolutely hate to do and feel like such a heel when I do it.

I’m going to dump someone.  God, that’s such an ugly word, but unfortunately it’s an accurate one.

This blog is only two months old, and I think I’ve only mentioned Therese once, in passing.  She’s not exactly at the front and centre of things in my life, which is probably why I’m going to have to say my goodbyes.  We met six months ago, and while I enjoyed her company and thought her a good friend, it never got beyond that stage for me.  Unfortunately for her, I think she fell head over heels in love with me on our first date.  She acted like she didn’t, but she didn’t hide it very well.

When we met, she lived in another town, about an hour’s drive away.  She would come to Winnipeg on the bus every other weekend, spending the weekend at my apartment.  It was cool to have a companion here when the kids weren’t around, and frankly it was good again to have a steady sexual partner, even if it was only bi-weekly.  The sex was okay.  Not bad and not earth-shattering, but generally satisfying. 

But frankly, we are two ridiculously different people.  I feel like she is attempting to force herself into my world and my interests, hoping I will end up liking her as much as she likes me. For her it’s like taking a gulp of really awful medicine, because I know she doesn’t like much of what I like.

I like indie music and movies, vintage crap, books, science documentaries, art, soccer and a liberal dose of nerdy and/or mainstream pop stuff.  I’m a hipster without the ridiculous clothes or the pretentious bullshit (I hope, anyway).  She mostly likes professional wrestling, NASCAR, rodeos, Danielle Steele and Jeff Dunham, things I can barely muster an interest for, or just can’t stand.  I hope I’m not looking down on her or judging her, and I take great care not to, but sometimes I feel as if I am anyway.

This fall she confessed to being in love with me.  I told her that she was a good friend and was fond of her, but I did not love her back.  She didn’t take that particularly well, and I told her it was probably best if we went our separate ways.  After much cajoling, she convinced me for us to remain in contact and see each other because ‘she didn’t want to lose what we have’. 

In other words, she hoped I would come around to what she wanted.  I should have been insistent, but I gave in.  I do genuinely like her as a person.  She is fun-loving, kind, earnest and unpretentious.  I like spending time with her – but increasingly just as a friend.

But then she did something that really, really bothered me a few months ago.  It was Thanksgiving weekend (in Canada, Thanksgiving is on the second Monday in October).  It was not my weekend to have the kids, but the ex and I agreed I would take the kids Saturday night until Sunday evening so we could have a Thanksgiving dinner with our family on Sunday, and then she’d have the boys for their Thanksgiving dinner on Monday.

Therese texted me that Friday telling me she was coming into the city, and if we could spend time together.  I told her that would be fine until Saturday night, by which she’d have to be out because the boys are coming over.  She said she had friends in the city she could crash with until the bus ran back on Monday morning.

My policy since I left was that the boys would not meet any of the women I was seeing unless our relationship reached a certain serious and committed step.  Therese was well aware of my policy and had respected it up until now.  She got in on Friday evening, spent Friday and all day Saturday with me.  It didn’t seem like she was making too much of an effort to leave, so I casually asked her when she was leaving.  She looked up at me with a guilty face. 

“I’ve got no where to go.”

What do you mean, you’ve got nowhere to go?”

“None of my friends have gotten back to me.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.  I’m trying to get a hold of them.”

Then I saw her on her smartphone, trying to get a hold of people.  I don’t believe she had any plan to get a hold of her friends.  I believe she came here, hoping she could just wrangle herself into staying here with the boys and perhaps getting herself invited over to my mom and dad’s for Thanksgiving to boot.  She knew my boundaries, and she decided to try and sneak around them.  Not a good sign.  It actually reminds me a lot of my ex.

Long story short, she stayed over Saturday night with my kids over.  Jesus, I wasn’t about to kick her out into the street.  But I was not happy.  Yes, sooner or later, the boys are going to see daddy dating.  But I want to ease them into it, not see daddy sleeping in bed with a woman who isn’t mom right off the bat.  I’m already deeply suspicious that Nick is already putting two and two together as to why I left mom, and the guy the ex was seeing, and I don’t want to muddy those waters further right now.  But I did not invite her over to Thanksgiving dinner.  That may have been harsh, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cordial.  She left the apartment Monday morning and I’ve been keeping her at an arms distance ever since.  She’s been over since, but not as often.  We still text, but not as much.  To be frank, ever since Thanksgiving, I’ve pretty much lost most of my desire for her.

In the meantime, she moved into the city, renting a room from a friend of hers.  We’ve gotten together for coffee a couple of times a week, but she’s only been over a couple of times since moving to the city.  I haven’t been avoiding her; if I hit the point where I was going to avoid her, I’d end it, but I’m not going out of my way to see her either.

Things came to a head a couple of days after Christmas.  I’d had the week off work, and after Christmas and having the kids over and everything else, just wanted a couple of days off by myself to bum around, catch up on some reading, blogs and vlogs, take the camera out and take some shots of the neighbourhood, maybe even play some video games.  Be a total and complete time-waster for a couple of days.

After those couple of days, the door was open for Nick to come over on his own until I got Gerry on Friday.  Nick and I don’t get a lot of one-on-one time together, and with Gerry still under 2, sometimes things are tough for him if he wants some selfish dad time as Gerry can and will monopolize it.  I wasn’t going to force him to come over if he didn’t want to, but I wanted him to know I really wanted him to come. 

Therese texted me the same day, asking what my plans were, and if she could come over.  I told her it was iffy, that she could, only if Nick wasn’t coming over.  She said no problem, that she would like to come, but she understood that my son came first.

So anyway, Nick enthusiastically agreed to come over, overjoyed little Gerry wouldn’t be there to steal all my time away.  I texted her back telling her sorry, but the rest of my holidays are sewn up with the boys, and she got ridiculously  pouty about it.  Okay, I get that she wanted to see me and we haven’t seen each other in a while… well, okay, we haven’t had sex in a while, but I told her that the boys will leave on New Years Day and she can come right over then.

‘No, don’t you understand?  I won’t be able to get there!’

Okay, here’s the deal with Therese, and I’m going to try to be as open-minded about it as possible.  Therese is on government disability.  She has an injury that is almost identical to mine.  She shattered her ankle and broke her fibula when she slipped on a patch of ice.  This happened a few years ago when she was living in Alberta.  For reasons she never quite explained, she hastily moved to Manitoba about 2 years ago.  She alluded to something about an ex-boyfriend stalking her but didn’t elaborate.  She left behind two kids in the care of her dad and her stepmom, and from what she’s told me, she loves her dad, but cannot stand her stepmom.  Apparently, all but one of her brothers and one of her sisters in her family have stopped talking to her.  I don’t pry, but she claims it’s because her stepmom was spreading lies about her.  She didn’t give specifics.

It’s really none of my business, but she wants me to know all of this and she especially wants me to know that whenever something happens to her that’s bad, it’s someone else’s fault, or someone is out to get her.  And she’s always very vague about the circumstances surrounding her kids and leaving home.  I don’t necessarily think she’s lying, but there’s a buttload of truth she’s leaving out.  You just get that sense about her.  I mean, I don’t want to give the impression she isn’t a good person.  She is.  But just not a stable person.  Not someone to take up to the next level.

That and I think she’s become quite accustomed to disability cheques, and I think she’s not looking forward to having to go back to work.  She keeps complaining that she can’t work, that her ankle is still too bad because her surgeon botched two surgeries.  She still has a pronounced limp, but gets around easy enough.  I don’t know.  I can’t judge, but my gut just tells me that she just doesn’t want to work.

Anyway, she doesn’t drive and neither do I, so she’s been buying a bus pass since moving to the city.  Now, apparently social assistance is withholding money until they can sort out the last place she was living at.  Apparently, she skipped out owing her landlady 3 months rent, but I had thought social assistance paid a case’s rent directly.  I don’t know.  But I know enough to find everything about this to be really dodgy.  So long story short, she has no money because the government is against her, her leg is still bothering her because her surgeon is incompetent, she can’t see her kids because she is broke and her stepmother is a bitch, and if we’re going to see each other, it had to be that day, because she won’t be able to afford a bus pass for the next month.

I’m sorry, I told her, but my time with my kids will NOT be compromised and Nick and I are spending the day together.  Just the two of us.  Like I promised him.  Period.

Then she started going on about how things are changing, how she feels differently, she loves me and I don’t, and everything about her life is just horrible, but it’s okay, don’t worry about it, it doesn’t matter.  Hmm.  I’ve lived most of my life around women who guilt the people around them and no more.  We need to have a talk.

But I’m still going to feel like a heel.  

I Am Speechless...

As I write this my beloved Newcastle United is up 3-0 against the mighty Manchester United.  It was 2001 the last time they beat Manchester United.  We are all ecstatic... St. James' Park must be nuts right now... I feel drunk right now... that is all.

The Obligatory Bitch About My Mother Post

I am feeling much better now.  The bout of dizziness and nausea was determined to be foodborne illness by the doctor at the emergency room with almost a dismissive flair.  Happens a lot at this time of year, she explained.  They sent me home and told me to get some rest and ride it out, that it should subside in a day.  If not, then come back.

It subsided fairly quickly and here I am, ready to write a post about how much my mother annoys me.

What's that?  A blog post complaining about a parent?  The ground beneath me is breaking!

Here I am, lying on the couch, unable to move except to run to the bathroom to throw up.  My sister calls to wish me a happy new year, and I tell her how sick I am, and I'm just waiting for the ex to come and pick up the kids.  She sympathizes and asks if there's anything she can do but I tell her not to bother, since her car is in the shop and she'd have to hop the bus down to see me.  The ex was coming shortly to pick up the boys early.  If there was anything, I'd call her, but otherwise I thought I'd be okay.

Fifteen minutes later, my phone rings again.  It's my mom.  I already know my sister (let's call my sister Heather) probably called her right after she got off the phone with me.  This, with very little paraphrasing, is our actual conversation:

Mom: Happy New Year, Wanderer.

Me:  Happy New Year, Mom

M:  How are you feeling?

W:  I guess you probably talked to Heather... I feel terrible.

M:  Are the boys okay?

W:  Yes, the boys are fine.

Silence.

M:  Well... what do you think it is?

W:  I don't know.

M:  Was it something you ate?

W: (feeling very dizzy) I'm not sure mom.

M: What did you eat?  Did the boys eat what you ate?

W:  Mom?  I...

M:  Was it that chicken?  (Mom had packed leftover chicken from Christmas, including the carcass, so I could make stock)... you didn't just leave the carcass lying around, did you?

W:  Mom, I'm... that's... that's just ridiculous... why would you even...

M:  I'm JUST ASKING Wanderer... there's no need to take that tone with me.

W:  Mom, I'm really sick, if you’re just going to interrogate me, then I’m letting you go      .

M: Oh... okay then, I'll call you tonight and see how you’re feeling

There is virtually no situation where my mom will not take an opportunity to make me feel like a 7 year old.  And up until about a year ago, I just put up with it, because that's how moms are, right?  Well, not really, but I've been far more assertive with her lately.  That day, however, I was too sick to bother fighting with her.

Instead of doing what normal people do when they find out their child is sick, which is convey sympathy and then give an offer of help and comfort, my mom wants to immediately find out what the culprit is so she can admonish me for my carelessness.  I'm reminded of that line in Clerks:  "There's nothing more exhilarating then pointing out the shortcomings of others, is there?”   If Schadenfreude is an Olympic sport, I think my mom could have retired the gold medal.

Okay, that’s harsh.  That’s way too harsh.

But every time I see her or talk to her since I can remember is laced with this kind of interrogation and accusation.  Arrgh!  There are long periods of time I simply don’t talk to her, just because I don’t want to go through this with her again.  I stand up for myself now, but there are times I simply don’t want to deal with it at all.

I try to be sympathetic, and my mom had a childhood I can’t even pretend to process.  She was born in the height of the Battle of Britain in Newcastle in England’s North-East.  Newcastle and the surrounding areas were heavily targeted by German bombers because of its collieries and shipbuilding.  A couple of hours after my mom was born, her and my grandmother were whisked off to the bomb shelter.  And that was it for the first 4 years of her life.  Bombing raids and air sirens and soldiers practicing maneuvers in her front street and young men in her neighbourhood going off to fight and never returning.  And for a decade afterward, she endured rationing.  So I can understand that her formative years were tempered by some pretty hard-assed living.  I’d be looking over my shoulder a lot too if someone was raining bombs on my head for the first 4 years of life.

In spite of all that, from what she and my dad have told me she excelled.  She was a competitive dancer in ballroom and tap, and she was a semi-professional tennis player in her teens.  She was quite social and outgoing, and a passionate supporter of Newcastle United, going to as many games as she could afford.

Geordie legend Jackie Milburn at St. James' Park.  Mom is probably in the crowd somewhere. She told me the stands were so packed with people that for the entire match her feet never touched the floor

When my mom was 22, she and four of her friends bound a ship for Canada.  My mom never discussed why she left, but to say that Canada seemed like a land of endless opportunity and plenty, untouched by the stark reality of war, which was still very much in the air back in England, even though life had somewhat returned to normal.  From what I gathered, there was a lot of tension between her and her mother, and it was no secret that she favoured her brother, my uncle Fred between the two kids.

They lived in Montreal and lived what my mom described as a pretty cosmopolitan lifestyle.  They would take trips to New York to see the sights and visit the famous jazz clubs (all of which my mom ended up hating, and never returned), ski in the Laurentian mountains or Vermont, or take in the nightlife of Montreal.  She brought her Beatles records along with her to parties before anyone here ever heard of them.  She lived through the Quiet Revolution in 1960s Quebec, where Quebec nationalism really found its feet and she found it difficult being an Englishwoman in a society that was fomenting a distinctly anti-English segment.  More than once she was ignored in shops for having an accent and/or not being able to speak French.

It was never clear how my mom and dad met.  They are both ones never to talk about themselves that much, but they did meet on a train going to Vancouver, my mom coming from Montreal and my dad getting on at Winnipeg.  My dad’s cousin chatted her up first, but it was my dad who ended up capturing her attention.  They were married in Vancouver in a matter of months and my mom was pregnant with Heather soon after. 

My dad probably could not have been more different from my mom.  I’ve never really figured out what they saw in each other.  Opposites attract, I guess, but they were about as opposite as you could get.  My mom was metropolitan, my dad was small town.  My mom loves to dance, my dad hates to dance.  My mom liked jazz and the Beatles, my dad liked country and the Stones.  My mom was a teetotaler, my dad was a drunk.  My mom loved to travel, my dad couldn’t be bothered.

And so my mom settled into married life with my dad and never looked back.  My mom’s four friends that she came over with all did pretty well for themselves.  One married a lawyer in Montreal, one married an insurance man who later got into Alberta politics.  One married a multimillionaire and moved to the States.  Another married a multimillionaire and moved back to England.  My mom married my dad, a drunk who drifted from working at the railway to working in the mines in BC back to working at the railway.  Don’t get me wrong, dad always made sure we always had a roof over our heads, food on the table and clothes on our backs, although there were times he was very begrudging about it.

Later on, my sister told me the last time they traveled back home to England that she confided in her that although she doesn’t at all regret having us kids, she regretted getting married to my dad.  She feels embarrassed whenever her and her four friends get together for a reunion, they are living these fabulous lives while she still lives in the same rundown house in the same working class neighbourhood in the same boring city with the same unmotivated blue-collar drunk for a husband.  I was shocked when my sister told me that she told her that she felt like she married beneath her.  I never saw my mom in that light before.

She didn’t say it, but both my sister and I got the impression that she regretted coming to Canada in the first place.  In Canada she is edgy and neurotic and anxious and chain-smokes, but back home she is completely different: relaxed and fun-loving, barely even smoking.  I’m not sure how much of that is her being back home and how much is it being away from my dad, but I’m sure it’s a combination of both.

My mom suffers a boatload of anxiety and mental issues.  I’m sure growing up in the spectre of war has a lot to do with that as well as my mom’s stereotypically British attitude of ‘stiff upper lip and all that’ when it comes to her problems.  Anxiety and panic and worry seems to permeate everything she says or does.  Growing up in our household with a moody, unpredictable drunken dad on one hand and anxious, panicky and pessimistic mom on the other has imparted a lot of the same elements onto us kids.  My sister and I both grapple with anxiety, and I’m sure my brother does too, although he is an iron wall of dispassion and would never, ever admit such a thing.

 Anyway, mom called yesterday and asked how I was.  I told her I was feeling better and that set her mind at ease.  She asked about the boys and I told her they were fine.  We talked Newcastle United’s horrific performance against Liverpool last Friday and she told me Uncle Fred called on New Years Eve from the pub at about 1 in the morning their time and swore that they didn’t play that badly.  We laughed and both agreed that Uncle Fred was well into his cups then.  Oh well.

Mom still annoys me.  She still annoys all us kids.  She needs real help for her anxiety and I think what she really needs to do is to leave my dad.  But that’s another lost post for another day. I'm off for a run.

My Weekend With the Boys #3

Here I lay, on the first day of 2012 in bed, afraid to move in case the nausea returns.  In case anyone is getting the wrong idea, I did not get drunk last night.  I had my boys for New Years, and Gerry spent pretty much all day in a state of unflinching defiance until I put him to bed in what was his actual bedtime, which I never stick to when he's over.

As a treat, I told Nick he could stay up until midnight and ring in the New Year.  I promised him secure in the knowledge that he'd never make it to midnight and I could go to bed at my leisure.  Ha!  My Nick is a chip off the old block and if he gets to stay up until midnight, then by God, he's going to stay up until midnight, even if it kills him.

Actually, I was the one who almost didn't make it.  I kept nodding off on the couch and when Nick sensed that I was falling asleep, he'd jump up and down on me shouting "WAKE UP!  WAKE UP!" until I chugged a can of Coke, which had been sitting in the fridge since the barbecue I had for my English cousins back in September.  That on a stomach of pizza and potato chips.

Oh yeah, I'm hardcore.

So midnight comes and goes, and we watch the festivities on TV and Nick as always has about a million questions:  are people celebrating?  are people celebrating here?  how many people are celebrating?  do people celebrate in apartments? and so on and so forth until I change the subject and ask if he wants to call his mom and wish her a happy new year, and he says perhaps the most brilliant thing I've ever heard him say:

"No... New Years is stupid!  They should have it earlier so I can go to bed.  Goodnight!"

And that was it.  He hugged me and went to bed.  I couldn't be more in agreement son.

This morning Gerry was the same as he was the day before.  I started making my chicken soup in the slow cooker, not feeling all that particularly well.  I put it down to the smorgasbord of crap I ate last night and carried on, until it was pretty obvious that I could barely stay on my feet.  The room started spinning and I spent a bit of time in the bathroom preemptively to avoid a dizzy mad dash to the bathroom.  I put Gerry to bed and texted the ex at about 11 to pick up the boys immediately.  She came about 4 hours later, but at least she came.  Nick left a little dejected that we didn't do anything today, and threw a bit of a tantrum on the way out.  I crawled to bed and I've been here ever since.  The dizziness seems to be subsiding, and my stomach is growling, although I don't feel particularly hungry.  A banner 2012 start, to be certain, and this is actually one of the better New Years I've spent.  Since I started going out for New Years Eve when I was 14, I've probably had 3 good ones, 3 passable ones and a whole lot of shitty ones.  Between 1993 and 2001, every single year some ridiculously drunk girl would blubber on my shoulder because her boyfriend was such an asshole.  Back then, I was too much of a doormat to tell them that hey, things are tough all over, but things aren't gonna change until you stop telling me and start telling him how you feel.  The exception was in 1994 when I spent my New Years Eve waiting at a gas station to score weed for everyone at the party and have everyone leave (including the girl I was chatting up) after got back.  But 1996 made up for that when the girl who cornered me and sobbed out her life story ended up stabbing me in the arm.  Ah memories.

Yes Nick, New Year's is stupid.  I was 20 years older than you by the time I figured that out.