When I grow up, I want to be a Kindergarten teacher...

I started volunteering in Q's class at the beginning of the year as a sneaky little way to spend more time with my kid.   I always imagined myself to be a 'hands on' kind of mom.  Turns out I'm a single mom who has to share custody of my son and work full time.  Being in his class was the perfect solution.  Not only did I get to spend a bit more time with Q, I got to watch how he interacted with other children, how well he was learning, if he was misbehaving...which FYI...he is absolutely not misbehaving...he's better in school then he is at home.  I wonder how that happens...

I love kindergarten.  I love it.  I should have been a kindergarten teacher.  And before you start on the 'it's not too late' speech, I will tell you it is waaaaay too late.  First of all, there is no way I am going back to University.  You would have to kill me first, and then what would be the point, right?  I just this month finished paying off my student loans...14 years after I finished school.  And if that isn't practical enough for you, how could I give up my job with a steady income to become a starving, single mom.  I have responsibilities.  I have bills.  There are already too many teachers out there anyways.  I would end up at the bottom of the pile, fighting for a job as a TOC (Teacher on-call...sounds so much better than substitute teacher, doesn't it??)

But, I love kindergarten.  The kids all call me Mrs. Miller which is nice, because I'm obviously not a Mrs. and I probably never ever will be.  One kid called me Mrs. Q...which I thought was too funny, so I didn't correct him.  He also said to me one day, very seriously, "Mrs. Q, when did you first notice that Q and I were best friends?" 

In kindergarten, there are no emergencies (well, okay...I guess it would be pretty serious if you lost a kid...but how often does that happen?)  In my career, if you miss mail...it's a National event.  They discuss it at 7:30 am meetings.  It's fire-able.  In the airline industry...well, it was a good day if the plane left on time and no one died.  Which, for the record, no one ever died on my watch. 

But one day, in kindergarten, we were doing a craft that was super involved.  Crayon wax, iron, wax paper...it was intense.  Oh, who am I kidding, it was fabulously fun!!  But at the end of the craft, one little girl, S came running up to the teacher and said, "Mrs. N...I didn't do the craft."  Oh my goodness, I started to freak out.  What are we going to do?  I thought.  We're don't have enough time.  Maybe she'll have to stay a little late to do it. 

The voice of reason came (of course) from Mrs. N..."Oh well.  I guess you'll have to wait until tomorrow and do the craft then."  What?  But that's sooooo simple!  We don't have to call anyone?  Fill out an incident report?  Fire somebody?

"Mrs. N!!!!  I lost my name tag.  Now, C won't be able to write my name."  Cue tears from K.  Of course, Mrs N. came through in that crisis too.  Amazing.  She's like, superwoman. 

I love the kids.  The kids love me.  Z says, "Mrs. Miller.  You're coming to school today.  You bringed your bag!!"  I can see the kids who don't get enough love at home.  They spontaneously hug me.  It breaks my heart.  I love watching how they've grown through the year.  Those who are reading already, who is sooooo close...

We do fun things like go for community walks, and we colour, and we learn to count by 10's and the days of the week.  We drop eggs from ladders and then call it science.  I know, shut the front door, huh?  We sing, "Thank you for listening!" and the children sing back, "You're very welcome"...and then they're quiet.  If I did that with my employees, they'd all stare at me like I'd lost my marbles.  But at school, we sing everything...and before we leave the classroom, we all say, "Inside voices, outside voices.  In the hall, there are no voices."  Brilliant.  Absolutely brilliant. 

Last week, we went on a walk through the community to the fruit store down the street.  We looked for different signs, we walked in a line with our partners (FYI...everyone wanted to be Q's buddy...warm a momma's heart, I tell ya) and held on tightly to our loonie so we could buy an apple when we got there.  I went along to make sure no one got hit by a car, or lost, and because I really wanted an apple, too.

I sounded just like a teacher..."S, tie up your shoe.  You don't want to trip."

"B...hands to yourself."

"N, are you listening?  Let's listen, okay?"

Fast forward to my staff meeting that night...

"G.  Tie up your shoe.  You don't want to trip.  I don't want to do the paperwork."

"T.  Hands to yourself.  No you cannot touch G.  And I don't care if you're joking."

"R.  Hello...I'm over here....Are you listening?"

Not a word of a lie.  I'm serious.

At kindergarten, the kids all throw their backpacks by the door and then go play before the bell.  The backpack saves their place in line for when the teacher opens the door.  The other night, I saw a line of backpacks by the time clock at work.  They're there to save spots for the employees.  So that right at midnight, they can swipe out.  The honour code. 

One more thing learnt in kindergarten.

Maybe I'm not too far off the mark...

She's a she...

You ever get the feeling something is a little...off? 

A little weird?

What do you do with that information?  The feeling?

If you're like me, you try to ignore it...

Molly's first vet gave me just such a feeling.  I think theirs was the biggest ad in the phone book, and it was close.  It was convenient, a little too convenient.  First, they get me in right away.  Like, I call at 5 and I'm in at 5:45...convenient, right?  We get there and it's completely empty so we get in right away.  First little inkling something was off..."How old is he?"

At first, I thought it was just a slip of the tongue.  I mean, while Molly does have a pink leash, a pink collar, and her name is MOLLY, I guess it could be a little confusing.  Maybe her mind was on something else and wasn't really paying attention.  How many of us can say we're totally focused on work at work??  Besides me, of course (Pssss...boss reads blog...)...

"SHE is 4 months old,"  I reply.

"4 months....and what kind of dog is he?"

Seriously?

"She's a terrier.  A Cairn terrier."

"A Karen terrier?  K-A-R-E-N??"

"No, Cairn.  C-A-I-R-N...."  I say, looking to the door.

"Wait...you're spelling it too fast.  C-A..."

Uh....what kind of vet doesn't know one type of dog from another?  One sex from the other?  I was starting to worry.  But, I rationalized...she's just the secretary.  Maybe she's new to the profession.  The vet will know.

The receptionist takes Molly to the scale, and says "Oh, he's 10lbs.  Good weight for him."

Hello?  He is wearing PINK.  Get it right, woman.  I'm about to correct her yet again, when she doubles over in pain.  "Oh.  I'm sorry I'm not myself today.  I have a tube baby I'm trying to pass."  Uhhh...a what?  Trying to what?  I didn't think you 'passed' tube babies.  I thought they were like...uh, life threatening.  But she says she's been to the hospital.  "I was in so much pain earlier today.  I collapsed and my husband came to help me and I spoke ill to him.  Can you believe it?  I said, 'Don't touch me.' Oh dear."  Oh dear is right.  I'm sure she's the first wife ever to tell her husband not to touch her.

We're shown into the exam room and in walks the Vet....a.k.a:  Receptionist's Husband.  I already know too much about him.  But I wonder, did he fail med school?  Are his certificates fake?  He smiles and says, "So, your puppy.  He needs his second shots today?"  OH COME ON....seriously?  You're the vet.  I realize the pink isn't the dead give away I thought it would be, but really?  She has a vagina.  Girls have vagina's....Molly is a girl with a vagina.  "Yes, she needs her second shots,"  I smile thru clenched teeth...

The rest of the visit was a whole bunch of he's and his's.  The vet looked like he was making things up as he went along...."First of all, we're going to ah...well, we're going to get the shot.  Yes, yes we are.  I need you to hold him tight, like this.  Don't let him move at all."  I'm not the vet.  You hold her, I felt like saying...

When we were paying (another production as they whispered to each other in another language...I heard a couple firm 'no's from her though...) they said, "You will have to book for the spaying."  Are you out of your fricken mind?  There is no way you're coming anywhere near my poor little puppy's uterus. 

My new vet is fabulous.  She is the sister of a colleague.  When we first walked in, the receptionist says, "Oh, she's a Cairn terrier!  I love cairn terriers."  My heart skips a beat.  I look to the left, there's an eye chart for dogs....Cats in different sizes.  Love it.  They know her gender, breed and they have a sense of humour.  Fabulous.  When she got her shots, they gave her a smorgasbord of doggie treats, cheese and dehydrated chicken...to distract her, so I don't have to hold her down. 

These guys, I trust with my Molly's uterus.  Yesterday we took her in for the big event.  We have our fingers crossed that it will calm her down some.   Good news, she came thru surgery like a trooper.  She's resting comfortably by my feet.  She a bit of a bad ass now too, sporting a tatt in her left ear...ah, she's ours for life.  Or at least they'll know where she belongs next time if she runs away....

Directionally Challenged

I get lost.

All the time.

I'm directionally challenged.  

The first week in the new house, I found it purely by luck.  And determination.  I had a general idea where the house was, so I just kept driving down streets until I found something that looked familiar.  And that's not the most embarrassing part.  I've lost my way home, on more than one occasion, when home had been home for two years.  I've learned that "short cuts" for me are not short at all, but a total act of frustration that adds at least 30 minutes to my trip.  

I grew up in a city where the mountains met the prairies.  Mountains were always to the west.  And down town was a beacon of large buildings amongst a whole lotta flat land.  If I were lost all I needed was to find the tall buildings or the mountains and I was good.

But here, in Vancouver (or the lower mainland, I suppose...as I don't really live in Vancouver, but a smaller 'corporation' named Delta) I get lost almost every other day.  I cannot even tell you how many times I've heard a little voice from the back seat say, "Mommy, are we lost again?"  I used to say that we were taking the scenic route and then point out a few trees or an empty parking lot and comment on how beautiful everything was.  But now, I don't even really dignify it with a coherent response.  

The lower mainland is built up of many little cities or corporations who's streets are all the same names.  And they have absolutely no correlation to one another.  River road in Richmond does not connect with River road in Delta.  So, when someone says, "Oh, just follow River road..." you need to clarify which River road they're referring to...and even that doesn't help me.  Unless maybe they do connect and I just haven't found out how yet. 

The mountains here are to the north.  Except Mt. Baker which is to the south.  The Ocean is to the west.  And there are tall buildings everywhere.  Again not so helpful.  I'll tell you why...sometimes I actually have to repeat to myself, "Never Eat Shredded Wheat" to remember where north actually is.   I also have been known to say, "I write with my right," just to avoid confusion.  And lefty loosy, righty tighty comes in handy too, but that's a different story for a different day.  And it's all great, but if I feel I'm going south even though I'm going north...shouldn't I trust my woman's intuition?

I don't understand people who feel the need to give directions using north, south, east, west.  I mean, turn north on such and such street.  Well, that would assume that you know where north is.  Although, having said that, turning left on such and such a street assumes you don't mix up your rights from your lefts...and keeping both hands safely on the steering wheel at ten and two does not exactly help if you're trying to make an "L" with your left hand to find out which way left is. 

And sometimes, I'm so certain I know where I am.  And it's usually when there is at least one non-directionally challenged person in the car.  I'm so proud of myself when I say, "Oh, I know where we are...I turn left here."  They say, "No, you turn right."  And I say, "No, I turn left."  And they say, "NO, you turn right"  and then I say...well, by then we've missed the exit, and they were right.  But in my defense, when you're coming from the opposite direction, it is left.  But that's a mute point when they're laughing. 

I was car pooling with a co-worker the other day, and we get to an intersection and I say (with a stroke of brilliance, I might add), "This is Yaletown!!"  He looks at me a little weird and says, "Ya...."  I guess it was a little weird, seeing as how I've been working about 5 blocks away from Yaletown for the past 2 years and had absolutely no idea.  And we've passed that intersection I don't know how many times before I realized it.  But I think of it as a breakthrough of sorts.  New and exciting things are waiting around every corner when you don't ever remember what corner you're on.

Which brings me to helpful directions...turn left at the McDonalds, right at the gas station.  I tend to choose moving 'landmarks' like a tow truck parked over....there...

It doesn't end with driving though.  I get lost in parking lots too.  One trip to Walmart and we're wandering around searching for the car.  Q was singing sweetly, practicing his "H's"  I did think this was a little odd, seeing as he is totally brilliant, I couldn't figure out why he wasn't saying the whole alphabet, only H.  Until about 5 minutes later when he finally said, "H, Mommy.  We parked by the letter H!!!!"  Oh, now isn't that helpful.  And who taught him that, I'd like to know.  It sure wasn't me....

Another time, I wandered around a mostly vacant underground parking lot for the better part of half an hour trying to find my car.  This time my mom was with me.  We didn't think to see what letter we'd parked under.  Where is that kid when you need him??  I hit my alarm button on my remote for the car over and over and over until we heard the faintest little 'beep!'   Thank God for car alarms is all I have to say!

I don't even know if a GPS would help me.  Can a computer laugh?  Or make you feel dumb?

"No...left.  Left.  Left.  No...your other left.  Oh...never mind..."

If everything had worked out as I had planned though, none of this would have been an issue.  If my sugar daddy had materialized, I would have a chauffeur...

'Q'-isms

The Canadian National Anthem...

...according to Q

Oh Canada,
Our home and native land
True lady love
In all thy sons command
With glowing hearts
We see the lies
From North and South and East
From far and wide
Oh Canada
We stand on God for thee
God keep our Land
Glorious and Free
Oh Canada
We stand on God for thee
Oh Canada
We stand on God for thee

For the real version...see here...

The Dentist. (aka: Dr. Evil...)

What I lack in conviction, I certainly make up for in fear.  I'm afraid of everything.  I'm afraid of getting stuck in an elevator for like 48 hours.  Of course, it didn't help that as a little girl my father would come home and tell us all stories about how he got stuck in an elevator like every other day.  I'm afraid of heights and bees and the dentist.  And for every single thing I'm afraid of, my dad gave me one more reason to be fearful.  For every fear, he'd have a story of something that happened like that to so-and-so and it was the absolute worst  possible outcome.  His words never calmed my fears, they fed them.  Like the time my papa was fixing something on a roof and didn't get stung by one bee, but a whole hive of bees.  Now what little girl wouldn't be afraid of bees after a story like that?  Bees are vengeful little beasts that sting for the fun of it when people are minding their own business.  I believe that to this day...honey smoney...they're out for blood...

The dentist is my biggest, most irrational fear.  I firmly believe that dentists have found a way to legally torture people and not go to jail for it.  Seriously, pulling teeth out was a form of torture in some war, I'm sure.  It's true.  Dentists have the highest suicide rate of any profession out there, because they know people hate them.  And how can they live with themselves?  With all the evil things they do to people?  I swear to you I would rather have a pap every day for the next year than have to go the dentist once in the next 10 years.

Not surprisingly, I avoid the dentist.  I have stories that will make your toes curl.  I was in the 'chair' having a root canal when the freezing wore off.  Instead of giving me a little more freezing (or a shot of tequila...) he just kept going.  I had tears streaming down my face, while the hygienist alternated between wiping my tears, holding my hand and holding my head back so I couldn't move.  Have you ever had a metal file stuck up a live nerve????  There's one word for it....TORTURE!!

I've thought of having them all pulled and getting dentures...but how do you mention that on a date?  Because you know you'd have to mention it, before they popped out while you were kissing or uh....something.  And I'm pretty sure it would be a deal breaker.  I mean it would be for me.  You think dentures, you think OLD...

I finally summoned up the courage to go to the dentist on Friday.  He smiled and said, "Oh, it's been a while since we've seen you."  I smiled back and tried not to vomit.  I found him a few years back, because he specializes in sedation dentistry, but he really is very good at what he does (torture) and so he talked me out of the sedation (sadistic).  He talked me through the procedures.  I like that he doesn't teach me how to brush my teeth  and floss every time I go for a cleaning (which isn't every six months, in case you were wondering...)  I'm an adult for crying out loud.  I may have highly irrational fears, but I do know how to brush my teeth...geez.. He smiles.  Lots.  He has very, very nice teeth.  They're so white.  And he's very, very handsome.  So it's somewhat embarrassing that I make such a fool of myself every time I go.  To be honest with you, I usually work myself up into such a frenzy before the appointment that I have to cancel the morning of because I'm an absolute basket case.  I'll pay the $50.00 cancellation fee.  Damn, I'll pay $250.00, if it means I don't have to go to the dentist.

But I had two teeth that had broken off.  Molars.  One on each side of my mouth.  So, we had decided the best thing was to do was pull them.  I was actually quite relieved.  No drill is good in my mind.  Pull the suckers, who needs to chew things anyways?  Just please don't use the drill.  And I've had teeth pulled before.  When I was a little girl, they pulled a couple of baby teeth so the adult ones could move in.  I mean, how painful could it be, right? 

It was horrible.  Horrible.  First of all, he gave me so much freezing the whole roof of my mouth was numb.  This makes it very difficult to swallow, as you can imagine.  So, when they're pouring water in your mouth and you can't swallow it, you start sputtering and look like a complete idiot.  My nose was numb.  My right eye was numb.  And there's something about the freezing that gets my adrenaline just pumping.  I had a major panic attack in the dentist's chair.  He's trying to talk to me, and I'm trying to breathe...and all I can think is that maybe I'm dying of a freezing overdose.  Can that happen?  I'm not sure, but anything is possible, right???

So, there I am doing stupid breathing techniques trying to bring my heart rate down and resisting the urge to either punch him and run, or just run as fast as I can out of there.  Finally, I calm down, they bring out the consent form, and start rattling off all the things that can go wrong.  I hear something about sinus cavity and then for the sake of my sanity, tune out completely.  There's like seven different things that can go wrong, but #8 isn't "Die" so I sign away and say a prayer that Q will be okay without me.  Oh, and he says, "You'll hear a lot of cracking, because they're really close to your ear drums.  But it's okay, it's just the tooth breaking off."  See, now that's reassuring...at least it's not my ear drum popping, because I bet that could happen too.  Thankfully, it didn't.

Then he starts reefing on my mouth.  And I notice out of the corner of my eye that my dentist has rolled up his sleeves.  He's prepared for some work.  Some tough work.  "Open your mouth"  he says.  Uh,okay...well I thought it was open.  But just to clarify, Dr. Dentist...my mouth is so frozen, all I can feel is my lower lip quivering every so often.  Thanks for the reminder though.

And then I go to work.  Literally.  It still didn't really occur to me that this was a big deal.  I'm still frozen.  I feel no pain.  I have gauze in my mouth to stop the bleeding and T3's in my pocket "in case" there's pain once the freezing wears off.  Everyone has a good ol' laugh about the fact I can't talk, and then they all tell me I'm a "trooper" for being at work, and I try to smile and say, "ith nob tho bad..."  About an hour and a half into my shift, the freezing wears off.  "In case" my friggen ass...I have an abnormally low pain tolerance as it is, but holy mother of GOD...this pain is like all encompassing.  It goes up the sides of my face, down my neck and along my jaw.  It pulsates, it throbs, it aches.  Plus I feel horribly nauseous from all the blood I've swallowed...I know, I know, Too Much Information...

Three days later, and I still can't eat solid foods.  I'm eating yogurt and mushed up bananas and ice cream.  My Tylenol is all gone, and the Advil doesn't work as well.   I cannot clench my teeth.  Every tooth hurts.  I'm grumpy.  I'm swollen.  I'm wholly convinced that dentists really are very evil.  

I'm totally stoked though, because I get to go back to the dentist in a week...to get a crown.  Woo hoo, torture and a small fortune, too.    Can't get much better than that, can you?

I Don't Rightly Feel Convicted to Title This Post...

I've been single now (well, single single...not counting flings and such...) for 3 1/2 years. That's a long time.  That's a really long time.  When Mr. Ex and I split, I was almost positive I would be in a new (happier, more stable, better functioning) relationship within 6 months...tops.  Really.  Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm pretty fabulous.  And truly, as long as I think that, it doesn't really matter what anyone else thinks.  In my head, I'm a little bit of alright and any man out there lucky enough to sucker me in would be the happiest man alive.  Funny none of that has really panned out, but their loss I tell myself boldly, their loss.

Anyways...back to the point...in these past three and a half years, I've had the opportunity to soul search.  Some may call it over-analyze-the-death-out-of-the-situation or possibly nitpick-the-heck-out-of-the-situation, but I like to think of it as 'soul searching.'  It sounds so much more...productive.  And serene....don't you picture me at the top of a hill in a long white dress with flowers in my hair searching the inner depths of my soul for wisdom and self-knowledge.  More like me lying awake late at night pondering (okay, okay...over-analyzing) my every last quality or fault.

And guess what...I've found something I don't so much like about myself...

I have no conviction.  (Please note there is no "S" at the end of conviction.  I will have you know I am a law-abiding citizen and the most illegal thing I've ever done is walk out of Walmart with a antiperspirant I forgot to take out of the cart and pay for.  The buzzer did not go off, I will have you know and I did not realize until I got back to the car.  And it's such a hassle to go back in and explain that you walked out with it by accident, and would like to pay for it.  They look at you with a weird sneer, like..."You're honest?  What the eff is wrong with you, Woman? Run, run with the wind and your free Vanilla Chi-Chi antiperspirant!!!")   

Ahem...

As I was saying...I have no conviction.  I don't believe super duper without a doubt in anything.

Okay, well...aside from God, and the Trinity and that when I die I will go to heaven.  I believe that.  Absolutely. 

But, I don't believe I'll ever stand with a throng of women while we burn our bras and yell, "Down with men!!"  I like my bra.  I like the support it gives me.  Having said that though, I'd never join a "Bra'd Babes" either.  I guess I'd probably adapt alright if we were told we could never wear them again. 

I don't really have any feelings regarding Capital punishment versus life imprisonment.  I think that bad people should be punished, but what if they really were innocent and we find out after the electric chair?  Then again, life in prison is a huge burden on the tax payers and why should we pay for some rapist to get a law degree and have a place to sleep every night?  I just don't know.

And what about my carbon footprint?  This one I just can't figure out...I get that we should reduce, reuse and recycle.  I've seen the commercials about the plastic water bottles being wasteful and we should all buy reusable ones (that cost the earth...pardon the pun!!) Here's the trouble with that one, in my mind...What about all those people who are employed making plastic water bottles?  What happens to them when I instead choose to use my cute reusable water bottle?  Do they lose their job?  And what about the ones whose job it is to recycle all the plastic water bottles?  Do they lose their jobs, too?  Because if they do, maybe I should still drink out of the plastic water bottles in order to save their jobs.  It's just a thought.  Which one is worse?   And I'm just one person...does it make much difference if just one person reduces their footprint?  They'll still be made, and then they'll just sit on the shelf in the grocery store...so isn't that more wasteful??

Political issues?  My feeling is....Meh...

I just don't feel so strongly about something that I would go through all the work to introduce it into parliament, fight with the opposition about it, make it into a bill, get the bill voted in by a majority.  I mean, really, sooooo much work.  (And I've probably combined the Canadian and the US political system in there because, as you may have guess, I just don't feel convicted to figure out the differences...)

The war in Iraq?  Well, I think they should just find a way to work it out by themselves.  And if they end up alienating (or killing) themselves from the rest of the world in the process, well...I guess they'd learn their lesson. right?  Cuba certainly did....oh...wait....I guess they didn't really, did they? 

Ten years ago, even twenty years ago...I had conviction.  I knew what I believed.  Everything was black or it was white.  There was no in between.  I was going to be the first woman Prime Minister.  I was going to change the world.  I was proud of the women who fought for my right to vote, for my right to be an educated woman.  And don't get me wrong, I'm still proud of them.  The last thing I've done with conviction was the other night when I caught two drunk young men peeing on my building at work.  Well, it was done moreso out of a crazy desire to scare the shite out of the punks than anything else.  I'm sure it's not the first time anyone has relieved themselves on the building and it certainly won't be the last.  I would venture a guess it's been done by a few employees over the last 50 years.  It was just so hilarious seeing these guys trying to stuff their 'bits' back in their pants without peeing all over themselves.  Truth is, they were probably so drunk they won't even remember me. But it made for a pretty funny story for me!

I guess I've realized as I've gotten older that there's a lot of grey areas too.  It's scary to me to put everything into absolutes, because at the end of the day, what are we left with?  We're left with many yeses, a few nos and not very many maybes.  Maybe gives us hope.  Maybe leaves us with choices and freedoms.  Absolutes leave us with nothing to change, nothing to grow, nothing to gain.  And I'm not so big on putting anything into boxes, literal or otherwise.

I'll never win a debate, but that doesn't really bother me either.

One thing I believe with absolute conviction:  You can never have too much love.  You can never be loved by too many people.  Over the weekend, a male friend of the family gave Q some money to take  his Momma and his Nana out for lunch on Mother's Day.  Later, he called to apologize, thinking he may have overstepped his boundaries.  But I say this (with conviction...) The more people who love my kid, the better.  The more men who model what it is to be a strong man and how to treat a woman well and respectfully, the better.  I firmly believe that it takes a community to raise a child.  I can teach Q how a woman likes to be treated, but I can't show him the way a man he admires can.  Lord knows he's not gonna learn that from his daddy. 

Baby

Q n' Baby...the early days...

Q has had his "baby" since he was 18 months old.  He met baby while were visiting my in-laws.  They were moving, had gone through some old boxes and found a blanket that my ex's mother had made for him when he was little.  "If you want it, you can have it," they said.  "Otherwise, we're just going to throw it out."  Well, I was still enchanted with my ex at this point, so the thought of throwing out a piece of his history tore at my heartstrings.  Q must have felt the same, because he took one look at it, grabbed it, and never let it go.  It's been a love affair the likes of which I've never experienced.  When a lost baby was found, Q exclaimed with delight, "Oh, Bay-bee!!"

He named her "Baby."  He gave 'her' a gender...she's a she...obviously.  Baby is unlike any other blankie I have ever seen.   She's an 8 feet by 6 feet, two sided corduroy patchwork quilt.  She weighs about 15lbs.  And she's over 40 years old.  Baby has been with us everywhere.  Airplane rides to Hawaii, road trips to Calgary, the doctor, walks to the park, the grocery store.  No bed time was complete without the 3 B's: baby, bobo (bottle) and a book.  After Q's dad and I separated, we had to make sure that baby always came with Q. 

After a few years, baby became a little tattered, especially the corners (Q loved to rub the corners on his face.)  He even had a favourite corner - and he could tell by feeling it in the middle of the night if he had the wrong one - he'd wake up and say, "Momma, find my torner..."

Then came the day baby split in two.  Super convenient, one at mommy's, one at daddy's...no more late night trips to get baby if she was forgotten.  A little sad, too, though, because baby was showing her age.  We washed her on the delicate cycle, and then by hand, as each of the little corduroy patches began to fray and fade and fall off. 

Q hasn't slept with baby in two weeks. 

I don't even think he notices. 

It breaks my heart because my baby is growing up.  I know I should probably be relieved that Q doesn't need her anymore, because I know I'd be really worried if he was still 18 and sleeping with baby.  But every little reminder that my baby, my only baby isn't so much a baby anymore. 

Another reminder...

Q has been wishing for loose teeth since he was 3.  Every few months he'd say he had a loose tooth, so I'd stick my finger in his mouth and wiggle all his teeth and they'd all be safe and snug and not the least bit wiggly.  Monday morning, Q woke up and said, "Mommy, I have a loose tooth!"  So, I got the wiggling finger out, and wiggled his bottom front tooth. 

Loose.

Then the one beside...loose too...

Then the top center ones...loose...and loose...

Four.  Four loose teeth.  Four.  A trip to the dentist last week also confirmed he has his 6 year molars coming in...(which shouldn't be a surprise...I mean he is almost 6...)

But c'mon...four loose baby teeth and a molar?  It's going to change his whole face.  He won't look like my baby anymore.   

What's next? 

Braces?  Dating?  Acne?

Oh, I don't know if I'm ready for this...