Curly cues.

If your kid has beautiful, curly locks, I can understand not wanting to get it cut.

I can understand just letting it grow and grow, until you drink in all of the deliciousness that is fine baby hair that twists into golden, shiny, spirals.

However, if the child is not, in fact, a girl, I might refrain from dressing him in androgynous clothing and putting a red clip in his hair to keep it off his face.

Failing this last point, however, I might be a little more forgiving when a well-intentioned stranger compliments him by saying, “she has gorgeous hair.”

Seriously, this couldn’t be the first time the mistake has been made.


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I held off on cutting Bart’s hair for the longest time because his curls were so gorgeous. I would have him dressed as a boy, head to toe, and people would still tell him he was a pretty girl. I didn’t care much, because he was pretty and I just loved his hair. It still pains me that those curls got swept up and thrown out. Of course, I kept one for the (non-existent) baby book, but one just isn’t the same as a whole head of them.

*Sigh* without the curls, my baby turned into a boy.

In case you thought I was kidding...

Yesterday morning at the bus stop, I realized that I had forgotten to put Bart's show-and-tell in his backpack. He looked very disappointed, so I reached into my pocket to see if there was anything in there. I pulled out my work keys and $0.39. I needed my keys, so I sent my four-year-old off to school with some coins.

He told me that he showed his money at show-and-tell and said it was to buy a Wonka Bar. He said the teacher laughed.

Not the mother of the year, indeed.

Um, yeah. Not today.

I’m normally a bit of a push-over. Actually, I’ll qualify that. I’m not at all a push-over at work. In fact, I’m pretty tough and bold, but kind of nice about it. I’ve been told that I’m one of those people who can tell you to “go to hell” in such a way that you look forward to the trip.

Where I AM a push-over is any time I need to represent myself. Restaurant meal sucks? That’s okay, I won’t make a fuss. Old lady cuts in front of me at the ATM? She probably didn’t realize, no biggie. Cable/phone/repair guy is 4 hours later than he said he would be? I greet him with a smile and thank him for coming at all. Seriously, I’m a wuss.

Apparently, though, I have a breaking point.

On Friday, I slipped out to Old Navy to pick up some sale items, as I had 4 birthday gifts to buy. I dodged all the rude shoppers who took up the whole aisle with their carts while they shopped in a different aisle. I waited patiently for my turn to rifle through the fleece sweaters to find the right size. I helped a grandma pick out a matching camouflage shirt and pants for her grandson.

I picked out my deals and chose one of the eight lines that was open. The line wasn’t too long, I was maybe fourth in line. The woman in front of me had clearly been doing a lot of shopping, as she had 3 giant bags of clothes that she was shuffling along the line. In her hand was one sweater. The woman gets to the front of the line, hauls up one of the giant bags and says, “I would like to return all of these.” Just my luck.

The cashier asks for the receipt and the woman pulls out, I kid you not, a wallet that is 3 inches thick with receipts. We’ve been standing in line for at least 10 minutes, and it didn’t occur to her to pull out the receipt. I share an eye-roll moment with the guy behind me and I patiently waited another 10 minutes for the cashier and the woman to get the whole return thing figured out. Fine, I was just happy that it was now my turn. Not so fast, Lori… not so fast, my friend.

The cashier says to me, “I’m sorry, this line is closing, you’ll have to join another line.”

That, was my breaking point.

“Oh no I will not”, I said. “You will NOT be closing until you ring my purchases and this gentleman’s purchases through.”

“I’m off now”, she protested.

“You’re off after you ring us both through.” Who was this speaking?

“Okay,” she cowered. “Thank you for your patience.”

The guy behind me gave me an approving nod and a thumbs up.

And I felt really good. And powerful. And I just wanted someone else to cross me, because I was on.a.roll.

If I were a Kate.

There’s been a bit of buzz this week about Internet anonymity, baby names, namer’s remorse and pseudonyms. It all reminds me of my favourite story about my grandmother. It’s a story that I asked to hear about several times when I was young, and one that even her closest friends (and even some younger family members) had not heard until I retold it at her funeral.

My grandmother was born in England in 1915 and given the name Minnie. At the age of 6, she moved to Canada with her family including her older sister. She started school mid-term and immediately felt overwhelmed by all the changes. She was a small, shy child with a very strong British accent. The other kids teased her for her accent and taunted her relentlessly about her name. She was known as Mini Minnie.

Her sister, who was six years older, was pretty and feisty and seemed to adapt to the situation effortlessly. She joined clubs and teams and was extremely popular. My grandmother usually just tagged along with her and her friends.

My grandmother grew to despise her name. She would avoid introducing herself and fantasized about names she wished she had.

When she was 18 years old, she followed her newly-married sister to a small mining town in northern Ontario that was experiencing a gold rush. She had no plans, no work lined up, but felt the need for a fresh start in a new place with her best friend, her sister.

She decided on the train-ride to her new home that Minnie was no more. From that moment on, she would confidently introduce herself as “Jill”. She found herself in this mining town and became actively involved in the community and the church. At 21 she was married and, while she was in the process of changing to her married name, legally changed her first name to “Jillian” .

I think of this story so often and I wonder about how difficult it must have been to tell her parents and her old friends. How bold it was to make that choice in the 1930’s.

I too fantasize about changing my name. Lori, to me, screams 1970’s and I wish I had a more timeless, classic name like Kate or Jill. I’m not about to change it, mostly because my parents still love the name and I would never do anything to hurt or insult them. But still, a girl can dream.

Do you like your own name? Do you think it suits you? What would be a better name for you?

The big fight.

We don’t fight that often, but when we do, it always turns into so much more than it needed to. I blame him (of course) and he blames me. I think what’s really going on is that we have incompatible fighting styles.

He just can’t let it go. I only want to let it go.

He wants to talk it out to death. I want to remain silent and never revisit it again.

He prefers to yell and talk over me. I prefer to talk low, make sarcastic remarks and pretend like I’m on the “no yelling” high road.

He can stay mad for days. I can stay mad for about 30 seconds.

He likes to tell me what I’m thinking. I like to tell him he’s wrong.

He’ll fight anywhere (Santa Claus parade, hello?) I’ll fight at home only.

He’ll use words like “always” and “never”. I’ll say things like “what’s wrong with you?” and “you need help”.

He’ll resort to name-calling. I’ll pretend to be wounded.

He apologizes, but always expects an apology in return. I stand by the “love means never having to say I’m sorry” rule.

He can be bought out of anger with SwissChalet. I silently declare victory.

How about you? How do you fight?

When the mighty fall.

Okay, so I’m not exactly mighty, but I don’t get sick. I really don’t. I get sick so infrequently (and by sick I mean chills, nausea, extreme fatigue, aches – believe me, I’ve had my fair share of the sniffles, and more than my fair share of migraines, but those don’t usually bring me to my knees)… anyway, I get sick so infrequently that I can remember almost every time:

There was the time when I was one of a 5-person committee making a multi-million dollar, 10-year contract decision for the university between the two major soft drink companies. One was presenting all morning, the other all afternoon. The presenters included the Canadian Presidents and VP’s and the set-up was elaborate and expensive. During the morning presentation, I started to feel a little shaky. At the break, I went to the washroom to splash my face and then immediately threw up. I excused myself two more times during the first presentation. One of the VP’s commented that I had the smallest bladder he had ever come across. Instead of doing lunch with the committee, I went to my car in the hotel parking lot and slept for an hour, thinking I just needed a little rest and I would be fine. During the afternoon presentation, I had to leave the room no less than 8 times. Yes, I kept going back in! I honestly thought that each time was the last time. After that, I was sick at home for the next three days.

Then there was the time that I was sick for 8 days straight, but never missed a full day of work. I dragged my butt in there everyday thinking I could just shake it off. Several times I fell asleep at my desk (luckily I was in an office with a door). Then, I would go back home at about 10:30 and sleep the rest of the day, only to repeat the madness the next day. I am not a heart surgeon. It really doesn’t matter that much if I skip a couple of days here and there to be sick.

In my first year of university, I missed my economics exam due to “acute influenza” (that’s what they wrote on my doctor’s note when I dragged myself in to infect the school health clinic’s entire waiting room). Do you know what you don’t want to do? Write an economics exam at the end of January when you learned all the material Sept-Nov.

I didn’t miss any school in elementary or high school for real illness. In elementary school, they would give out arm bars (little patches that my mom dutifully sewed onto a pillow for me) for things like winning sports teams you were on, citizenship, and yes, attendance. I got a lot of different badges every year (I was a total joiner), but always got the attendance badge. In high school I took some “sick days”, but they were really more mental health days.

As the human race goes, I’m fairly inexperienced with being sick. When I am sick, I’m fairly certain that’s it for me… that some super-bug has broken through my immunity barrier and will spell my demise.

So it was with my most recent bout of flu(?? – I’m assuming that’s what it was) I was certain I would die, Homer was making my final arrangements (not really, but he was more attentive than usual), the kids were learning to be self-sufficient. But, alas, I’m back. The bug has been banished, the sheets have been changed and I am catching up on everything I missed. Hopefully it will be several years before I have to deal with all that unpleasantness again.

When mom gets sick…

• Tables do not get cleared.
• Dishes do not get done.
• Children do not get dressed.
• Children’s hair does not get brushed.
• Dinners consist of Happy Meals and pizza.
• Baby gets 3 diaper changes a day.
• Toys do not get put away.
• Cushion forts do not get torn down.
• Children’s teeth do not get brushed.
• Children are stimulated by Elmo, Dora and Diego.
• Garbage gets taken to the curb, but not the recycling.
• Dad is exhausted from taking care of everything.