Can’t feed em? Don’t breed em.

What a great bumper sticker. Except not really.

I found this story about a Maryland housing official proudly displaying it on his vehicle. I’m sure he grew up in the best neighbourhood, went to only the best schools, never ever lived paycheque to paycheque, and had life handed to him on a silver platter. (And then got a job in public housing. Good for him.) I only kinda partially agree with this statement. It’s hard to look at pictures of emaciated babies in third world countries who will starve to death before they learn to walk, and it’s too easy to wonder what their parents were thinking.

Now let’s snap into context. This is North America. There is no reason for anyone to starve to death here. In particular, there is no reason for a child to be homeless. We help each other here. Now, it’s not ok to have eight or ten babies when you really can’t afford them.  No one has children just to get a roof. That would be like chopping your feet off to save money on shoes.

I have never ever met a little girl whose wanted to be a “welfare mom” when she grew up. I never thought I would be going through school with two kids and a mortgage by myself. Shit happens, life happens, and we make the most of it. But public housing is usually a temporary thing. It’s there to help. It’s there to lower rent payments so children can have food and clothes and diapers, etc. It’s not always long-term, and it doesn’t need to be a shameful thing. If the help is available, who would be foolish enough to not accept it?

I’ve heard comments. Unnecessary comments. Posed to myself, and others in my situation. I’ve always thought.. my goodness.. if you cannot help me, you don’t need to make it worse. There has to be a middle class. There has to be a lower class. That’s just the way it works. If we all got paid the very same amount of money.. well, correct me if I’m wrong.. but didn’t Hitler have an idea about that 60 years ago or so? It costs hundreds of thousands of dollars to raise a child from birth to college age. Should I have set that aside before I had children? Should I have aborted them?

I hope others can begin to think twice (at least) before passing judgement. It could have been you. It could have been your mother who applied for government housing to keep you safe, and to keep you warm. Or it could have been you who looked in an empty refrigerator one moment, and a hungry child the next, wondering if your baby was getting tired of rice and hotdogs.

Be thankful you are in a position to criticize. And not the one needing help. 

Cars, cops, n’ stuff.

In September, I was 6 months pregnant. On my way home between classes, I stopped for a train. And my car was trashed by someone who didn’t. No harm done, but the car was a write-off and my eye was messed up for about a week (actually, it’s still numb, but whatever).

I’m not the type of person who car-hops. I city-hop when I can, but car shopping is such a pain, so I drive what I have until it runs into the ground. I miss my car. I’m crying over spilled milk, I know. BUT THAT WAS MY CAR.

A family member gave / lent me a car in the meantime (so, between now and forever, I hope). It was free, and that was so great, but somehow it’s led to this post

In the 8 months I’ve been driving this car, it has broken down 4 times. It’s only 10 years old and has a reasonable amount of mileage on it, but somehow, it was cursed at the dealership. Or something. The first time it got towed, I had to abandon it in a church parking lot. I started walking to a gas station about a half block away (7 months pregnant, -40, and late for a doctor’s appointment). A few cars drove by, and one stopped. One stopped. The stranger told me to get in, and I obliged, though only after we assured each other neither was an axe murderer. He drove me to my doctor’s appointment, never to be seen again. The car was towed later that day, some belts were repaired or replaced, and although the ABS line was severed (really?) on the hoist, the car place told me all was well and the indicator light would remain on. Fine.

Then,

the tire blew. On the coldest day of the winter, when it was stupid to go out in the first place (especially with a little girl and a newborn), I heard the classic thumpity thump that only an exploded tire will give, and drove the last few blocks home from the grocery store. I purchased an emergency road service membership, and called for assistance. Since it was -55C or so, you can imagine the emergency trucks were in high demand, so after a refreshing 11 hour wait, the donut was on, and we were off to the tire store in the morning. Now, I’m not so good with cars, and I don’t pretend either. So I trudged in with two kids, two carseats, pointed to a stack of tires, and said “Hi. I need one of those thingies.”

“One of those round black things? A tire?”

“Yeah…”

And who knows what a reasonable price is. At that point, it doesn’t matter. They see me comin’.

In February, the heat in the car decided to stop working. It’s cold in February. Really, really cold. We drove around for two weeks with blankets and mittens and touques. Finally, I made a call to a car repair shop that had “courtesy shuttle” in its ad. I made an appointment, drove the car in, moved both kids and both carseats into the courtesy shuttle, and the driver took us home… about 6 blocks away. When the car was repaired, the guy working the desk decided that the shuttle only goes one-way. I explained to him that The Girl was sick, and I needed to get her to a doctor. I explained I was on my own, and even the shuttle driver agreed that he would be able to pick me up for a return trip. “Nope. One way. He’s off in the afternoon, and we only run shuttles in the morning.” (Which was as bold-face lying as I’ve ever heard, as my original shuttle was at 3pm, and as my cab arrived — with two carseats, and two babies — the shuttle driver was seen working in the parking lot. For an $8 cab ride, I will never, ever go back.)

Yesterday, I was driving home from my brother-in-law’s birthday party. I approached a stop sign. And yay? No brakes. I’d heard that feels-like-there’s-a-dead-body-under-my-car thing before when my brakes were shot with my old car. I drove a few meters, and turned around. I got out, and looked under the car. I got back in as a police car was approaching from the other direction. I flagged. Them. Down. There was a time in my life when seeing a police car meant, “Shit! Cops!” But now, especially living in the hood, it means “Oh thank God. The police are here.”

One of the officers thought it was a CV joint, which sounded mildly important when he insisted that was the piece that held the wheel on to the rest of the car. I drove back to my sister’s and called a tow truck this morning.

When the car was ready to be picked up, my sister dropped everything and came to get us. Again, two kids, two carseats, it’s an epic. She probably doesn’t drive through the hood too much, and ultimately drove 57 in a 40 zone (some hidden playground somewhere). We were pulled over. There was another car in front of us, and just as my sister handed her licence over, the driver in the front car was suddenly in hysterics. He opened and slammed his driver door, and was either refusing to get out or otherwise cause a scene. He started screaming. We were on our way shortly with her licence in hand, no ticket or warning, and a great sight in the rearview of a man parked in a crappy old white car next to a lawn that hadn’t been mowed in months, being successfully subdued by two officers who figured he was more of a pressing situation than two girls, two kids, and two carseats. Yay, no ticket

But alas, after the car was towed from my sister’s, then to the only auto shop open on a longish-weekend Sunday, and an appointment was cancelled getting us closer in line (and it really only took 3 hours to fix), it turns out some sort of disc.. or something… had exploded. The shop guy said it was the worst he’d ever seen, and actually showed it to me, next to what “one should look like.” He knocked 20% off the repair bill for some reason, which was awesome I swear driving this car is practice for the kids’ teenage years. Every time I turn around, it needs $200. Bah.

*snicker*

1 As a 1930s wife, I am Very Poor (Failure) Take the test!

To quote…

“It is a poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.” 
  —  Mother Teresa

They walk among us.

Alright, this one needs a whole new post. Cause really.

On Thursday, I took the kids to daycare, and met up with a friend at the university for some much-needed tutoring before finals. Afterwards, I ran a few errands and decided to stop by the grocery store, since I was kid-free for a few minutes. The Boy has finally started dabbling in solid foods. (And incidentally, this is one of my favourite parts of having a baby in the house. Besides the toothless grins and first wobbly steps, I’d say first foods are such an incredible milestone to be a spectator to. I saw a nutritionist once a week for a year when The Girl was a baby, and she has an excellent appetite. When offered a donut or brocolli, she picks the latter. Wonderful.)

Ok. Yes. So I’m at the grocery store. Picking out baby food. I’m minding my own business, silently wondering why Heinz doesn’t seem to offer plain wheat as a cereal flavour anymore. A lady is behing me, stocking diapers or wipes or other baby items. She singles me out and says, “you’re lucky you’re doing that today. It’s going to be nuts in here this weekend.” She sounded sort of disgusted, so I asked what big excitement could possibly be upcoming. “Child tax,” she said.

Now, really. That just pissed me off. As a little bit of background, “child tax” is a monthly payment to parents of small children from the Canadian government. It’s based on income, and I believe parents are eligible until their household salary is somewhere around $40 000 / year. (I’m a student, my income is essentially nill, and I max out on child tax. Cool.) I’m not an economics major, I don’t know how this makes Canada essentially socialist (does it?), and no idea what’s really going on with the taxes and politics, blah blah blah.

Anyway. I — like many, many others — get money on the 20th. It’s to pay for daycare. It’s to pay for food and toys and heat and water for baths and laundry. It’s to pay for diapers and kindergarten school supplies and clothes and haircuts for kids so that they don’t have to live in poverty. And yet, people still get upset over it. It’s tax free. And only for parents or guardians. I’ll be paying taxes soon enough, and I know my tax dollars will help others in similar situations. I know many people abuse it and buy alcohol or make car payments and such on the 20th. I get that.

But we weren’t in a liquor store. We were in a grocery store. And I was buying baby food. It was the 19th of the month, and yeah, most people who are eligible for child tax are probably living month-to month. Maybe the-20th-to-the-20th. And maybe it would have made more sense to wait til that extra money was in to get baby food. Maybe. And maybe if she had taken a moment to notice that it was the middle of a Thursday afternoon (when maybe I should have been at a day job), I’m fairly young-looking, my clothes were slightly ill-fitting, my cart was not full, and I was buying BABY FOOD… maybe — just maybe — I get child tax. I’m not useless, I don’t sit at home all day, my kids want for nothing, my bills are paid, and yes, I do depend on the 20th. For baby food, daycare, kindergarten school supplies, heat, water for baths, etc etc etc..

Like, fuck.

I went on to remark that Heinz doesn’t seem to make plain wheat cereal. She suggested I call the company and complain. Oh, boy. “Yes, Heinz? Concerned parent here. Would you mind taking the fruit out of your wheat cereal and stocking your inventory the same way you did five years ago when no one knew any better? Cause umm.. I met a psycho at a grocery store, and she suggested I call you. Oh, and about child tax…”

An older couple came through the aisle. “You’re lucky you’re here today. It’s going to be nuts here on the weekend,” she said. Some people should just.. not be around others.

Summer stuff.

I think maybe.. if I didn’t have two kids, and I wasn’t in school in an insane program where every single class has a lab, and there was no such thing as laundry or dishes, and no one needed to go to the dentist, doctor, park, or daycare, and if I didn’t have to eat, sleep, or pee, I might have time for this blog. I’m forcing myself. I really am. So, here’s what’s been going on:

In the interest of saving money creating something magical and wonderful and thoughtful that will hang on the wall for years to come, we made this for my dad for Father’s Day (yeah, yeah, old news).

We used Crayola Colour Wonder fingerpaints, and slapped some stickers on. I think it was well-received… but maybe the stickers were a bit much.

The Boy has been baptized!

We had issues with this one. Without getting into it too terribly much, apparently there are still some priests who will not baptize a child born out of wedlock. I realize this is my forum to rant and rave about such things, but it seems wiser to hold my tongue.

Ok, and summer’s here!

We’ve been busy enjoying the weather when we can. The city has several spray parks open from June to August where kids (and big people!) can splash and play and cool off (oh, bonus, it’s free).

I like this park best, I think. It’s clean and well kept, relatively (tho still driving distance) close to our house, is typically not too busy, has baby swings, a slide, a sandbox, and lots n’ lots of “callepitars.”

We also took advantage of the weather by going to a (free, yay) movie in the park. There are several throughout the summer, and they’re played at dusk on a large inflatable screen. We didn’t get home til waaaay past everyone’s bedtime, but I suppose it’s ok to do it once or twice a year. And with all the packing that goes into taking two kids to the park for a two-hour movie, once or twice a year is about all I can take

Fathers Day.

…

The shower.

My sister is getting married in a few weeks, so last night, we held a sort-of shower for her and her beau. There was a LOT of food.

Vegan Fear Factor

 

And actually, it was all vegan.

The family put on a “mock wedding,” which was well.. very, very strange to say the least. The men dressed as women, the women as men. The Girl was the flower boy (and really, this kid didn’t talk about anything else for two weeks leading up to it, and it must have been killing her to keep the secret from her aunt).

Surprisingly, no one wants their pictures plastered over the Internet (spoil sports) but here are a few “safe ones” (I think). Doesn’t quite capture the insanity of the moment, but they’ll do

 

 

The “bride” ~~ “No silkworms were harmed in the making of this dress.”

All but over.

Branded!

Signing the register (are you laughing?)

CLEAR!

I’m trying to keep this blog alive. Really. I realize that my three daily readers must be distraught that there haven’t been new posts lately, but this is unfortunately one-more-thing-I-don’t-have-time-for. It’s been BUSY here, in the Survivor house. I have midterms stacked on top of finals. I have labs and assignments I constantly have to ask for extensions on. I have laundry piling up, friends I haven’t called in forever, and I swear I haven’t been out just to have fun in months. The Boy is being baptized on Sunday, so there have been baptism classes and preparations to attend to. The Girl is all done preschool and is busy preparing for kindergarten. We are having a wall constructed in the house (and I LOVE it), so the hysteria doesn’t end when we come home.

But… my night class is officially over. One of my labs is ending tomorrow. Finals are in two weeks, and I will have two less classes to worry about. I have made the diffucult decision to stop breastfeeding The Boy, so I suppose a few more minutes of the day are freed up.

I finally found some time last week to sort through the kids’ clothes. I put away The Girl’s fall clothes for next year, hauled out her summer stuff, and took whatever didn’t or won’t fit to the daycare, where apparently there’s some sort of swapping program for families who need it. I received two full black garbage bags of hand-me-downs for The Girl, and I couldn’t be happier. As a bargain hunter, these are the best kinds of deals (although much less hunting, but that’s ok too). When I was little, my sister and I would get boxes of clothes now and then sent to us from a second cousin in Ontario. It was so exciting to rip open that box and find clothes we’d never seen before in different patterns and colours. My sister would get the clothes first, naturally, and then they would be passed to me, but I always loved those boxes.

The Boy is in 12 month clothes. Already. At five months old. So there was more and more sorting through hand-me-downs and borrowed clothes and the odd clearance rack outfits that I knew would fit “eventually.”

It’s been cold here. Really, really cold. I’m not sure that this is “spring”.. or just that-inbetween-where-mother-nature-switches-from-really-friggin-cold-to-unbearably-hot. Yay, the prairies. We are 8 degrees Celcius away from snow, and in June, that almost warrants a formal complaint to Environment Canada. My furnace is on, for crying out loud. And we spend more time rummaging through the “fall” clothes bags than what it’s worth. It’s been rainy and windy and cold for the good part of a week, and I’m always amused to see people running from the pellets. It’s just water. And you shower everyday. (Granted, not fully clothed.. but you shower everyday, no?) I suppose if you were on your way to your own wedding, getting caught in the rain might be troublesome. But I never hardly ever see a woman in a long flowing white dress and veil taking cover.

Ok, I rambled. No pictures today. Mommy needs to sleep. Oh, and I should add: I don’t stare at the stairs anymore

Graduation

We have a graduate in the house!

The Girl graduated preschool!

I missed the “ceremony” because of my own classes, but I got to hear the “ABC Song in French” and “Bonjour, Mes Amis, Bonjour” tonight before bed.

I am so, so proud of this kid.