Disconnected

I picked up Simon from daycare yesterday because Rich was working up north until late in the evening. I hadn't been to pick him up or drop him off since he has transferred up to the "Thumpers" class (for the three-year-olds). Because we have one car which Rich takes to work - it's just easier for Simon to be picked up and dropped off by his dad since it takes me up to an hour to get there from my work. So this means that his educators all know Rich pretty well but don't see me that often. I wish it were different because I like to keep a close eye on how things are going there, snoop around the classroom, talk to his educators, other parents etc. Rich gives me a typical 'male' version of Simon's day. I ask "how did he do?" Rich says "fine." And then I pry into how much did he eat, sleep, did he listen, throw tantrums? I only get a glimpse of a third eye view into Simon's life at daycare. I attend all of the parent teacher events and evaluations etc. so I do get my time in but I wish I was better connected.

Yesterday, I finally met his new educators. They shook my hand and looked me up and down. I got the impression they think Rich and I are separated and I'm the distant mother. Some other parents had actually asked me if Rich and I lived together and if Simon lived with me or not. I guess because they don't see me picking him up they think I'm the estranged, disconnected mamma. Lordy if they only knew.

I asked Simon's teachers how he was doing in the new class. They kind of tilted their head from side to side and said "okay". I know this means bad news. I've seen it before. They told me all the new kids (which is 3/4 of the class) are having trouble transitioning and are taking longer to adapt. I'm not sure what this means really as both girls' shifts were done and I could tell they were dying to get out of there. They said he has good days and bad days - the bad days are when he doesn't listen. He's not as independant as they'd like him to be - in that he doesn't put his coat and shoes on well by himself and asks for help in the bathroom. Is it me, or am I the only one who noticed that he's THREE? We do encourage him to dress himself and MY LORD I would love nothing more than to have those extra three minutes in the morning where I'm not wrangling him into his clothes - BUT - he's just not there yet. I have to keep reminding myself that they have 24 kids in their care and probably want their independance sped up as much as possible. Regardless though, to me, kids are kids and when they are this young - their behaviour and habits are still pretty unpredictable. I always get such a caca feeling when I leave there. Guilty, discontented, disatisfied. I want to know EVERYTHING but always leave without my questions really being answered. Daycare blues. Working Mommies out there - I know you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Because it's Friday - let's end on a higher note here with some of Simon's latest expressions. He's taken to saying "Sorry, it was an accident" when he does something wrong. Most of the time, it's actually true - like when he clocked me in the face with his sippy cup during morning cuddle time, or when he spills his juice etc. BUT he's using it when things are very obviously NOT an accident. Like when he took apart Rich's big flashlight into a bazillion pieces, "Sorry Daddy, it was an accident." Or when he coloured the first page of one of my cookbooks with black marker.

Too Close to Home - Literally.

We've all heard about the tragic shooting that took place at Dawson College earlier this week. The college is one block from my office so we were in the middle of all the chaos that day. My colleague was in the connecting mall to Dawson when the shooting started. She managed to get back to the office before things got worse but sadly, on her way back, she saw one of the victims that was shot outside the building. The police back up had just been ordered and the cops that were there couldn't get to the victim until they knew where the line of fire was. When my coworker got back to the office, she was shaking and could hardly tell us what was going on. Then the convoy of police cars, news trucks and ambulances rolled through right in front of our windows.

The first reports were terrifying - multiple shooters, one of which was reported to have escaped through the metro and into Westmount Square - directly in front of our building. Our boss heard the news as he drove in from Toronto. He told us to lock the doors. 30 minutes later, police are at our door telling us we're on lockdown until further notice. We're promised that our building is secure and the safest place to be right now. There were thousands of panicked people in the streets - we were better off inside.

They finally let us go at 4:30 and we had to walk home because the area was totally cut off and no buses, cabs or subways were running around here. I walked my colleague home first - she just started with us less than two weeks ago and is a former Dawson student herself. As we shared my umbrella home, she turned to me and said "I know we don't know each other very well but I haven't been able to stop shaking since this morning, do you mind?" and she linked her arm in mine for support, warmth and some sense of friendship.

Today, I was trying to make my way through the mass amount of media coverage. My mouth dropped when I read that the shooter attended and graduated from my highschool (class of 1998, I was 1992 so there was no cross over), my heart skipped a beat when I read on and learned that he also attended my elementary school. I picked up the phone to call my mom when I read that he lived in my home town, 5 minutes from my parent's house. My mom drove by his family's home just to see what was going on around there. Naturally, the lawn and sidewalk are covered with reporters waiting for his parents to release a statement. The house is solemn and dark. I read that his parents haven't left the house in three days.

I feel horrible for them. They are Indian immigrants - obviously oblivious to their son's online diary of anger, terror and violence. They spoiled him. He was 25 years old, unemployed and living in their basement plotting his bloodbath right under their roof and they had no idea. Now, they are faced with having to accept the fact that their son is a killer. They need to face the parents of the children that he killed and injured. They need to give answers to society that they don't have. They need to mourn the loss of their eldest son.

When I look at these gun-toting kids, I can't help but think that years before they came to this, they were somebody's babies. Someone woke up every two hours to feed them. Changed their diapers, wiped their bums and noses. Made cakes for their birthday parties, bought them presents. What the hell goes wrong? I'm sure Kimveer Gill's parents will be asking themselves that question forever.

Lucky 13

I'm a couple of days late with this post but I can't let it pass by without saying a few words about my sweetie. Rich and I celebrated our 13th anniversary on Sunday. Brunch with Simon at a local greasy spoon which involved Simon squeezing a creamer so hard that it exploded all over us, the table, window and waitress. Then groceries, then a family nap, then a homemade dinner of sweet and sour pork chops, veggies and wild rice. Our first home cooked dinner in two weeks. My poor family has had to sustain on frozen raviolis, fish sticks and cucumbers while we were in the whirlwind of prepping for Jenn's wedding. We'll do a little outing for just the two of us in a couple of weeks as things slow down. To me, the day was perfect.

Happy 13th my love. Who would have thought that picking up someone in a bar over a decade ago would lead to this? I'm so glad I wore those short shorts the night I met you. I love you. I love you.



Thanks Tante Marlene for taking such a good photo of us!