Why Indeed

It's been a hard two weeks for Mommy Mab and her littles. First gastro, then scarlet fever, then gastro again...then Mommy Mab got bronchitis. Ickiness all around. Plus, making matters more unbearable than usual the Lack has been poking its nasty head out wherever it can. Boo on all counts.

Today I decided to engage in an activity I take great pleasure in: planning my success. Now, depending on my mood this game can take many forms; from the banal imagining winning the lottery to the elaborate-become a late in life highly sought after actress [Hey, it could and will happen...just wait!].

Given that I was plodding away at the Big Green, where for the last two days its been my job to unwrap hundreds of usb sticks and repackage them with monogrammed notebooks. I decided to re-investigate the mini executive MBA program I've been trying to borrow funds from pretty much anyone to attend.

After all my proverbial ducks were in a row, meaning I'd discovered nobody wanted to give me the money and I'd need a student loan if I decided to go through with it, I remembered the fellow I'd been speaking with had mentioned that the program was eligible for employer tax incentives. So I decided to call my lovely HR Generalist to get her opinion.

'Oh Beaver' she practically cooed. 'Why on Earth would you want to take that course?' she giggled. 'You'd never be approved anyways. What benefit would a course like that have for someone at your level?'
I admit, I'd hoped she'd be a little helpful, but I hadn't expected the saccharine, patronising, attitude. I rebutted that I'd already submitted my application and been accepted based on my work experience and existing degree. 'Oh Dear, why do you even want to bother?'  I thanked her for her time and advise.

So why do I even bother? Because I do, damn it. I bother alot. I may not rattle the cage as wildly as I did in my younger days, but I can still give it a swift kick if I'm of mind to.  Just wait Big Green, I'll show you...I'll show everybody.

Who is Watching Whom?

So today I get that dreaded call from the school saying that my Goose has fallen in the playground and hit his head. I know nobody enjoys calls from the school, but I particularly hate ‘injury’ calls; they always make me feel infinitely more guilty than illness calls, and part of me is always angry that my child got hurt while somebody else was watching them.

Immediately I jump into Dr Quinn-mode and demand to know if he’s dizzy, throwing up, how high was he when he fell etc…

The woman on the other end answers all my questions, and when I’m satisfied that there is no immediate danger I ask to speak with my son. Initially she’s reluctant, but I, being me, persist until he’s brought to the phone. Or at least until some child is brought to the phone. Here’s where it gets a little weird…

You see, two seconds into the call I realize that the child I’m speaking to IS NOT MINE. Calmly I ask the child to let me speak with the program’s Director, and when the phone is handed over, explain that, whichever child I was speaking to IS NOT MINE. No, she says, he just sounds that way because he’s shaken up, or maybe my connection is bad, but she insists, I was speaking to my blue-eyed Goose [blue like his Mommy's eyes she says]. I acquiesce, because let’s face it, I am very hard of hearing on one side at the best of times, and the phones at Big Green aren’t exactly stellar.

I call the Wog to be on the look out for head injuries when Goose gets home and go back to work.

A few hours later the phone rings again. This time the Director explains to me, laughing all the while that she did mix up the children and it wasn’t my Goose I was speaking to, but some other injured child. Goose never fell, she says, she was just confused…oh, and she’s sorry if she worried me.  Nice of her to let me know.

So apparently the people I'm paying to take care of my child, don’t actually know who my child is or what he’s doing. Which begs the question, if they aren’t watching, who is?

Waiting For Gastro

You know that feeling of impending doom you get when one of your littles has gastro [or stomach flu for those non-Quebec folks] and even though they're getting better, you know its only a matter of time before another member of your household succumbs? That's how I feel right now...some people wait for Godot, I wait for Gastro.

My relationship with gastro is long and complicated...and absurd, really but it's part of what makes me, me.
I admit it, I worry constantly about the kids getting it, the Wog getting it, even occasionally me getting it, though that's calmed down since I discovered Mommies aren't allowed to get sick, ever.

Last night poor Roux was up all night being sick, and she found the whole exercise terrifically exciting; no tears from my little Miss, just plenty of 'Momma I throw up *insert place*!' Ug. A night full of washing and rewashing, and then sanitising and re-sanitising cause it makes me feel better.

So here I sit, klonopin in hand, waiting. Calmly. I've accepted my fate.

~I'm like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.~  

~Samuel Beckett

On Flu Shots and Jedi Mind Tricks

I'm going to let you in on a secret; I vaccinate Goose and Roux.  Shhh...don't tell anyone.  I don't have the energy to debate with the other Mommies. I could argue that both of them received the full intensity of my attachment parenting bonanza; co-sleeping, extended breastfeeding, baby-led weaning...the whole kit and caboodle. With Roux I even got more intense: *queue creepy music* she had an adjusted vaccination schedule. But I'm too tired to debate these things anymore; raise your littles your way, and I'll raise mine my way.  Live and Let Live.  Or Live and Leave me the heck alone...whichever is easier.

So, onto the point of this post. Today is officially the first day of flu shots in grand old Quebec; I get mine for free at work [one bonus the Big Green gives us along with our five sick days], so I left work early to bring the Goose and Roux to the drop in flu shot clinic down the street. Now, I don't do crowds, or germs really...but once a year I forgo my hangups and drag my littles to get shot full of attenuated flu virus.
Now I had confirmed with the provincial health folks earlier in the afternoon that this clinic was walk in only and ran until seven thirty so I figured if we arrived at four thirty that left us plenty of time...according to the big, burly security guard that barred our entrance I was very, very wrong.

Upon arriving in the subzero temperature in the growing darkness [and trying desperately to ignore Roux' demand that we play in the adjacent park instead] the big, angry man informed me that the clinic was only accepting people with appointments and I could come back tomorrow. Now, being a perfectly rational beaver I informed him that I had taken time off work, taken my littles out of school early and been told by the provincial health folks that I was able to attend this clinic. I refused to leave. I repeated my three points, again. And again. More people queued up behind me. They seemed to agree with my three points [most of them having brought their own littles]. I requested that I speak with somebody else [I'm Canadian we hate to be rude], several times...and refused to leave. Eventually he gave up and brought out a volunteer. I explained the situation and my trinity of arguments, and repeated it, twice.
As more and more people were gathering around me [including an absolutely sweet lady about to start chemo] her teen aged son and I figured it out. It was like a Jedi mind trick...they kept repeating 'We don't have appointments' but then people would arrive saying they had appointments, at which point they would add 'Unless you have an appointment', but when we requested appointments for tomorrow they repeated 'We don't have appointments'.
Eventually the head nurse came outside and repeated their strange mantra 'We don't have appointments' while still allowing people flashing their not-appointment cards into the building 'Unless you have an appointment'. No solution was reached and the littles and I went home. Attenuated virus-less.