My Dad

My Dad is pretty great. I already knew that. But it’s quite something else to hear it from a roomful of people as well as voices from the East to West Coast, people who have worked with him for years, people who knew my grandfather and compare him favourably to him. It’s quite something to hear the reverence in everyone’s voices. To hear that my dad gave Peter his first job and that he was patient and kind even when Peter forgot to put the truck in park one day and let it roll into another truck, narrowly missing a gas pump. It’s quite something to hear the descriptors I would use, come from so many other people. I knew he was gentle and patient and compassionate with me. I knew he listened like his life depended on it when I had something to say. I knew he was always fair and contemplative when it came to difficult situations in my life. But I didn’t realize he was this way with the people he worked with.

I know my dad has passions and strong convictions, but he never pushes them on others. And if I ever spoke him speak ill of another person’s lifestyle, it was that he “hated mediocrity”. This much is obvious to everyone he ever worked with. My dad never put half of himself into anything. It was all or nothing. He loves me and my sister and brother with everything he has, but my father loves people too. He sees everyone as valuable and I know he worked and continues to work every day to do what his convictions tell him is right and true. My father is not a man of formal religion, but he is a man of the spirit. He is a man of integrity. And I have never been more touched or proud of him as I was last night at his retirement party.

I knew it was important that I be there, but I didn’t really understand how important until the evening got rolling and I was sad in my heart that my sister and brother weren’t there to hear the things that were said. Children, no matter how good our intentions are, seem doomed to underestimate and take for granted how wonderful our parents are. I think from the moment we turn 14 and our parents fall from grace to a place where we see them as flawed and human and mortal for the first time, from that moment they have to work twice as hard to regain their position in the ranks as anywhere near cool or hip or worthy of our attention (I’m speaking from a teenager’s view at this point). And even in adulthood, when we see our parents for their weaknesses and also begin to appreciate their strengths, I think we can’t really understand how incredible these people who made and raised us are until we see them as others see them. When people who have no vested interest in loving them or revering them or honouring them DO anyway, that means something huge. When an outside source tells us just how important an honour it is to win an Amethyst award, that’s when we begin to understand. When an outside source tells us just how important an honour it is to be given an eagle feather, that’s when our minds begin to grasp it.

My father feels satisfied at the end of his career that he has done his best. That he has made the right decisions in his heart and he has worked to the best of his potential. He has fought for things he still believes to be true and good. And he wishes for everyone to have that feeling when they come to the end of their formal career.

I still have many, many things to learn from my Dad.

This is the Peterpatch Mid-Week Run

I'm in P-patch mid-week for my dad's retirement.
This is the part where I venture out to Jackson Park for a "long" run.

This the part where I realize I have to carry a bottle of Gatorade for an hour and a half in my right hand because if I switch it to my left, I get off-balance.

This is the part where I say hello to all of the happy dog-walkers. And they all say good morning and I already feel so tired it should be afternoon.

This is the part where the really intense runners don't say hello back.

This is the part where I hear a cow mooing like it's having its stomach removed through its nostrils. Then I swear the sound metamorphoses into a wooden flute.

This is the part where the forest of wet cedars smells like pee.

This is the part where I wonder if I should have worn my rings because maybe I will be mugged. Perhaps I should have told someone where I am going.

This is the part where I speculate about, if I sprained my ankle, how long would it take someone to find me. I wonder who would be the person who knows me well enough to figure out where I am.

This is the part where I think about how to make a crutch out of a crooked stick and my shirt.

This is the part where it starts to get very gray and rainy. Immediately it's sunny again.

This is the part where a woman has a really nervous and big dog and I'm glad she's holding it, but I wish she looked stronger.

This is the part where I wonder if I could out-run a Lion. I wonder if I acted alpha-enough, whether I could get it to run away from me. I imagine that as soon as I turned my back it would chase me. I wonder how quickly I could get up that tree nearby. I'm pretty sure Lions can climb trees too.

This is the part where I wonder if I scream with my hands cupping my voice, if the farmer in that house could hear me.

This is the part where I see horse poop and I look around for Menonites.

This is the part where a very hard-core running man is happy I have asked him advice about how far the path goes on for and he prides himself in the fact that he knows it goes on for another 14 kilometres.

This is the part where a turtle crosses the path and at first I think it is an aardvark, even though I don't think I've ever seen an aardvark.

This is the pee-smelling cedars again.

This is the part where I hear the cow/flute again.

This is the part where I meet Kris Atkinson going for a walk and we have a funny staring moment before we're sure we know each other.

This is the part where I recline my seat and lean forward in the car to try to keep sweat off it while I drive home.

Who would ever believe the adventures I imagine I have when I run in Peterpatch Mid-Week?

Getting all MAO on Y'all

Yesterday, Mattie-O (or MAO) exercised his democratic rights and voted in an advanced what-cha-ma-call-it (the difference between my political blogs and his is that he uses the real words). He told me he's voting Green and I kind of laughed, as if he would only do this as a "stick-it-up-yer-fannies" to the NDP and Liberal parties since we all know that Green doesn't stand a chance in hell. Then again, I've voted NDP on several occasions, probably more times than I've voted Liberal, and they rarely stand a hope in hell in my ridings.

And hasn't that always been the question: Do I vote purely or do I vote strategically? Because one vote really doesn't make a difference right now. A green party vote or an NDP party vote in a riding where Liberals will always win is a lost statement. It vanishes in importance. Until now....

With the proposed new Mixed what-cha-ma-call-it voting system, my minority votes WILL count towards a total % of seats alotted to my wee guys. And suddenly, I feel, everyone will feel their vote will be heard. And people who have always wanted to vote purely, WILL! That's exciting to me.

So I sat down in front of the computer to get informed about my parties platforms. I know for MAO this is a process of simply adding to his oceans of knowledge each and every day by perusing the newspaper and watching the news, but although I am painfully unaware of global politics, I was impressed with my own efforts. I read the Liberal and NDP platforms. I even began reading the Conservative platforms (just to say I was being fair) but couldn't get past their opening article about faith-based schools. And finally, I read the Green Party's platform. Of course I liked their ideas about Waste Management and Transportation (I expected that), but I also really liked their ideas about education. They had many very clear and specific ideas that would make this world a so much better place. They didn't beat around the bush on any issue. And unlike any of the other platforms, every idea they had made me excited! I agreed with it all!

So this year I am voting Green and I know my vote will vanish in the majority, but I am also voting in the Referendum for a Mixed thing-a-ma-bobbit in hopes that one day all those Green votes WILL count.

So at risk of sounding too political, I just ask that you consider reading the platform of this wee little party that could:

http://www.gpo.ca/platform

Grown Up

How do you measure grown-up-ness?
Well, I'm half a year away from thirty years old.
I got married two months ago.
I don't have stolen cable nor do I have street signs hanging in my living room.
Most of my dishes match.
And Mark and I are soon-to-be home owners.
But according to Mark, we didn't become officially grown up until yesterday, when we bought our first couch.

Meet the Teacher While She Dances A Jig

Every fall, our school hosts a Meet the Teacher BBQ. The fundraising committee (composed of community parents) does all the work. We, as teachers, just need to sign up to lead some games (toss the bean bag into the hoop) or hand out burgers and then be available and smiley all night.

I wore a skirt and some nice, strappy heels, in order to impress. This made retrieving flung bean bags rather tricky. (The strap on my left shoe wouldn’t break until 8:20 that night when I’d be heading out of the building.)

And at 7 o’clock, I made my way to my classroom, like a good little teacher, and the line-up of parents began to form. For an hour, I perma-smiled and optimistically told parents that I enjoyed their child’s energy or that their son had a lot of potential or that their daughter is encouraged to participate more in class discussions. I had folks who were worried that there was too much homework. I had folks that wanted more homework. I was asked if I was going to do the Science Fair and when that information would be out. I mistakenly called a girl Alannah when her name is Ashley. And I made note of many a tree from which an apple fell not too far.

Then I was introduced to Trauts’s mother. She is very proud of him, obviously. I’m not surprised. He is a very smart kid. I was immediately warned that I have VERY large shoes to fill because Trauts has had Mme Chan for science for the past two years and he’s LOVED it. I was told how Trauts has a natural gift for building things – he apparently built very complex Lego projects at the tender age of 3 without so much as a glance at the instruction manual. The guy is obviously very talented…..

Keeping in mind now, the very last project I’ve done with the class has been a Missing Chair Mystery. In order to make the Scientific Method fun, I’ve created a fictitious mystery that takes place within our school, with teachers as the suspects. I made a powerpoint presentation with the Mission Impossible theme song playing while funny mug shots of the teacher suspects flash up on the screen. I created fake search warrants and arranged for kids to confiscate the suspects’ shoes from the teachers’ classrooms. I even produced guilty footprints by painting someone’s feet and making them walk all over white paper. I photocopied the evidence and put them in Top Secret Documents folders. THIS, I do in the name, not only of education, but in the name of FUN!

And Trauts’ mother says to me, (after the comments on how bright he is and how he’s enjoyed Mme Chan’s class so much), “So if you see him snoring at the back of your classroom, you’ll know why.”

Apparently the jig I’m dancing just isn’t fast enough.

Clay’s Snorts

I teach a boy named Clay. He’s what we’d classify as a WLD (weird little dude). He lacks social skills and is often caught throwing other students’ things because he doesn’t like the way they talk or poking them because they are annoying. When I ask him if he’d prefer to be moved to a quieter spot at a table alone, he says that he doesn’t work best that way.

Anyway, I am in the middle of teaching a very serious math lesson during the first week of school and I am still really struggling for the students’ attention at this point. I am also really fighting for the position of authority so early in the year.

I am mid-sentence when I hear a loud snorting sound, like a bullet booger being shot like a spit-ball out of someone’s left nostril. And it’s loud.
I stop talking.

The snorting again. It’s coming from Clay.

I try to be casual as I say, “Clay, there’s a box of tissues on my desk.”

He doesn’t get up. I begin to delve back into how to properly find the prime factorization for a composite number when I hear the snorting again – this time louder. I can feel laughter rising up my throat but I manage to keep it under control. I am a bit frustrated by this interruption again, not to mention the rudeness of it, and I say with a bit more force, “Clay! The tissues are on my desk.”

I try to pick up the lesson where I left off and then comes a triple threat of snorts, with even more force than before. The kids start to giggle. I’m losing their focus. It’s becoming a circus. I have no patience for circuses. I have to show him I mean BUSINESS.

“CLAY!” I say in a voice that says THAT’S ENOUGH.

He doesn’t even look up but very loudly and articulately says, “I DON’T NEED A TISSUE! I HAVE TOURETTE’S!”

Slow Cooking

Nothing I ever cooked in the slow cooker tasted like anything other than canned tuna. I’ve done whole chickens and meatloaf and stew…it all came out like either caramelized tar or canned tuna.

But today we discovered a trick. At Mark’s insistance, we purchased a pork roast and we set out to make pulled pork for bbq sandwiches. I put that half-frozen hunk of meat into the slow cooker and we set it for “Keep Warm”. At “Keep Warm” for 8 hours and then high for 30 minutes, you get a perfectly lovely piece of meat.

Who would have thunk?

The Best Perspective

Our school has been uprooted with no end in sight. Reorganization isn’t a thing that’s new to teachers in the Peel Board, however, this year, with the government’s strict caps for class sizes, split classes are cropping up everywhere. They have become the rule rather than the rarity. They have become unavoidable, even when it would seem to me that they are not for the best interest of the students.

There quickly follows a heated debate about what IS in the best interest of the child and WHO should be deciding that. From where each person stands, someone else is making self-serving choices and protecting themselves from change. Apparently no one cares what is best for kids. Everyone is an ugly, no-good hooligan in someone else’s eyes.

I feel caught between caring and not. That’s not exactly what I mean. I don’t mean that I don’t care. I just mean that it would be so much easier to resign myself to whatever fate the administration or the stronger willed teachers in my school with the political clout decide for me. Wouldn’t it be easier to just DEAL? Tell me what I must do and I will learn to suck it up and I’ll move on.

Because what has happened is lovely, professional, optimistic co-workers have become consumed by angst and anxiety and outright anger over the perceived injustices occurring around them. Teachers are passionate. I wouldn’t have it any other way. But it makes for heated school politics.

So I was “chatting” with a friend who is a new teacher and she seemed bizarrely calm amidst the chaos. She’s at the bottom of the totem, so to speak, and the possibility of change to her teaching package is very real, yet despite how many times I ask how she’s feeling, she responds serenely that she is fine. Que sera sera! She’s okay with change….or not. It’s just one year, she reminded me. Then she quickly back-pedalled by adding that maybe she doesn’t have enough perspective to know! But how perfect her perspective is! Untainted by this tunnel vision we develop in our school community. If you wake early enough and spend enough hours there and stay late enough and then come home to work some more…soon you’re eating, sleeping, breathing school. Everything school seems big. Everything school seems to be EVERYTHING.

But it’s not, she reminded me. Because she’s new enough to remember that. And I always swore I would remember too. Some people are in passionate love affairs. Some people are struggling to raise a family on their own. Some people are unsure whether they’ll live to see Christmas. Some people are creating new life!

A split class is difficult, but I wouldn’t even call it a hardship. And some day we’ll look back at ourselves and laugh.

I’m not P-word

There’s been some excitement and a smidgen of well-deserved deceit surrounding my good friend Nej and her delicate state. She’s found herself in a family-way. She’s gotten herself bunned up. And I’ve known now for what seems like an eternity and I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.

Apparently, I can’t keep a secret. Delia found out from me. Joann inadvertently did too and I strongly suspect Mattie-O has known for some time (also my fault). I won’t blame it on not being able to lie, even though I can’t. All I have to say is, if it’s a very important secret and no one is going to ASK ME directly, I’m your girl. But if someone is going to have an Ah Ha moment in front of me and then look me in the eye and demand if they’re right, well, I’ll have a hard time.

When Nej told Big N, she was expectedly excited and giddy and she mentioned something like, “Oh, I just KNEW it! I was talking the other day with someone….who was it….and we were just SAYING that you’re probably pregnant….and there was someone else we were wondering about…..hmmmm….who was it?” Who was it, indeed? I’ve been getting the hints. I’m getting the elbows in the ribs. I hear the “first comes love, then comes the marriage….” rhymes and I see the inquisitive glances when I wear the empire waist bands and baby-doll shirts (it’s the STYLE alright!).

Well, I weighed myself a week or so back and I’d put on about five pounds. My pants are starting to feel a bit snug and I’m not running as much. I’m also feeling a bit self-conscious about the whole thing. So here’s a word to the wise: Don’t ask me if I’m pregnant. You might end up with my fist in your mouth.

:)

Weekend at the Oldridge Estate

Loaded into a caravan of vehicles, several friends (both old and new) set off this past weekend for the great Muskoka countryside, despite the less-than-tropical temperatures. All the more excuse to nestle into a near-hiberational state under Oldridge-made quilts and curl up with Sudokus by the woodstove.

We, the Peron family, nearly couldn’t make it this time. Utter blasphemy since the Oldridge Cottage weekend has been a bi-annual event (does that mean twice every year…anyway that’s what I mean) and the Perons always go. This time, however, we were in the midst of closing a deal on the purchase of our first home. Yes, this is important stuff. Yes, we needed to be approved for a mortgage and get a home inspection. Are these things more important than a weekend away with friends…..probably? I know this should be an easy question, but for an ultra tightly-wound teacher and all-round control freak, a weekend away with nothing but the sound of leaves falling off trees and cedar being devoured in a fire, wine to be sipped and board games from dusk til dawn is ESSENTIAL. It is what keeps me going until the spring Oldridge weekend.

Lately, we as a group, have been examining our own geek-ish qualities in as critical and objective a way as possible. See mao blog entitled “Nerd Love” at www.thousandsofmonkeys.blogspot.com. I will be the first to admit that we truly geeked out this weekend, but that’s what made it so fun. A few beverages into the first evening and we fell quickly into our favourite topic If The Teachers at Hillcrest were Wrestlers Who Would Win in a Match? We set out peanuts for Bobby Bork, the friendly neighbourhood chipmunk. We tested the effectiveness of a polar dip in tackling a hangover. We got quite loud about our feelings about faith-based schools, the government, and how our school’s dynamic is similar to The Sopranos. Then we played Settlers of Catan, Crazy 8’s, Master Mind, Abalone, Monopoly (the FULL game), Risk and a Candyland round-robin tournament (thanks for organizing that, Butler).

How do you know when you’re surrounded by the charm and wit of a gang of geeks?

You’ll be mentioning your anemia and someone will say, “Don’t you wish you were copper-based like Spock?”

New Kid

Being a new kid at the school isn’t easy.

Yesterday, we got a new girl at our school. The kids were overjoyed. They welcomed her as she trembled with fear. They took her into their groups and they let her sit with them at lunch. They volunteered to show her around the school. They introduced her to other kids. It was touching. Ann, their teacher, was deeply moved.

She told us this at lunch time. She wondered aloud what it was that made these children so welcoming and sweet toward this gentle soul. And my cynical self couldn’t help but wonder, would a less beautiful child be embraced in the same way? I tend to think not. No, the group had decided when the new girl had appeared, blonde, blue-eyed, petite and symmetrical, that she was what they wanted in the IN group. She was IN from the beginning. They made a judgment right from the start that she was acceptance-worthy.

And I remember seeing new kids starting at schools while I was a student myself. The most difficult thing, I remember, wasn’t necessarily who accepted you and who wanted you in their group (there were often many clusters and cliques looking for sidekicks and followers), it was figuring out where YOU belonged. It would be nice to be able to watch quietly for a few days to figure out the hierarchy of the school, without having to commit, before you picked your posse. But instead, if you want in, you have to grab at the extended arms of welcome.

And there’s nothing more difficult than finding yourself in the WRONG GROUP. I know this because I was a nerd. I was a Problem Child (math club) and I was a band geek (we went to London, England in grade 10). And if I had had the opportunity, upon entering into a new school, to be in the cool kids group, I’d have had to say “HELL NO!” The parties and the having to wear makeup and consistently plucking my eyebrows and pretending to be on crash diets all the time and making out with boys randomly and being kind of good and kind of not-so-good at math and probably drinking alcohol when you’re under age…the whole scene seemed like a lot of work. Instead, I could safely find the kinds of people who discussed linguistic hybrids of latin french and English, who learned to play bridge in their spare time, who did dramatic Improv at birthday parties, who related everyday mysteries like cherry danishes and the perfect sub sandwich to mathematical algorithms and thermodynamics. These were people you could relax around. People who understood you.

I wish for every new kid to find her like-minded peers, so she can happily geek-out in platonic bliss even if she IS burdened with beauty.

Things NOT to do

It was a really @#$(^&* hot day during the first week of school. This one class was making me feel like it was the end of June – I was THAT worn out. The heat wasn’t helping.

I had strategically seated a certain kid, that we’ll call TJ, at a table right in front of where I stand when I’m giving lessons. In fact, he was practically UNDER me he was so close. Now TJ is labeled BEHAVIOURAL and last year, despite the fact that I didn’t teach him, we had a few “run ins”. I was determined to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he’s hard to read and he sometimes seems to be a ticking time-bomb. I’m a little intimidated by the kid to be honest.

So I started into a lesson. And I got very excited (as sometimes happens when you love the subject matter like I do). I began to speak with big arm gestures and waves and my voice was filling the room not unlike a preacher at the pulpit. The kids were engrossed - their gazes fixed on me with the attentiveness they show when I tell them sometime like that I buy cow eyeballs from a catalogue.

And sometimes when I get very excited, I spit a little. Unfortunately, this is what happened. And usually kids don’t notice, but poor TJ was right up front and he received a fairly visible ball of saliva square on his forearm (he had his hands propped firmly under his chin). I watched it land, realized it was a larger-than-normal gob and, without thinking, in front of EVERYONE, I reached down and gently wiped it away.

Poor TJ. Most kids probably didn’t even see the spit. But it would be evident when I wiped it off his arm of what had happened. WHO DOES THAT? I thought to myself immediately afterwards. Who wipes spit off a kid in front of everyone? And who messes with a kid like TJ? For god’s sake, of all the kids I should have been trying not to spit on….

Then another thought occurred to me. What if TJ didn’t know I’d spit on him? What if no one but ME saw the spit? What if they just thought I had randomly decided to reach down and stroke the arm of a student in the middle of a lesson? Teachers had been fired for lesser things I’m sure. It’s sad, but the misconstruing of any kind of physical contact is something that a teacher in this day and age has been trained to fear.

The thoughts began to spiral out of control. I cringed. I held my breath.
But, to my amazement, TJ didn’t seem bothered. Maybe he didn’t even notice anything strange had occurred. Maybe nothing strange HAD occurred. Either that or I’d been saying something far too riveting for their attention to be drawn away by a mere ball of mouth juice and a sincere apologetic gesture.

Love and Hate

I am having a love-hate relationship with my computer. Nothing can aggravate me more, pull my wires, like a fickle and seemingly-unfixable computer. Be it the internet or some other network, maybe it’s the CPU or a virus or maybe the antivirus software. Perhaps it’s an LCD that won’t project or a printer that won’t align. The conversation goes like this….

“Give me a document”, I command.

“Um, I didn’t hear the magic word, Melissa”

“Give me a document” I repeat.

(No response)

“Give me Give me GIVE ME a document!”

“I’m ignoring you now”

With some gentle stroking, “May I please have my document?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“Okay, well what about THIS document?”

“Sorry, which one did you want again?”

“…or even THIS one. Or just open THIS program! JUST SHOW ME THAT YOU’RE ALIVE! SHOW ME YOU’RE LISTENING TO ME.”

“Now I’m all confused. I’m not sure what you want me to do. STOP HITTING MY BUTTONS.”

“Stupid computer!”

“Just following protocol, dumb-ass”

DIVE MONA DIVE!

Mona has spent the past nine and a half months practicing her swimming (Amy says, in preparation for the Olympics). And in the past two weeks, we've all been encouraging her (even the doctor) to take the plunge.

Amy e-mailed me an update on Friday (no word from the M-meister, but all were continuing to wait patiently) and ended it playfully with "Dive, Mona, Dive".

I replied and ended mine with, "DIVE, MONA, DIVE!".

And this afternoon, Amy phoned me to tell me that little Mona with her long slender fingers and her mop of black hair, had finally taken the dive. She'd timed it perfectly - beginning her dramatic descent two hours after Amy had submitted her PhD thesis - and surfacing finally seven hours later.

She's practicing her "pirate's face" with a crooked one-eyed grimace Amy explained to me. But she's lovely. And her conception and arrival has been serendipitous in so many ways.

Welcome, little Mona, to this wonderful big world. We can't wait to teach you to use chopsticks and to play the guitar.