February 24, 2004

• Calgary

  
  

   Is very cold.

  
  

  So cold that your snot freezes and your eyes feel crunchy. That's cold. And of course, living for almost 10 years in Sydney, Australia, means that my blood is nice and tuned into humid muggy hotness, not crispy dry freezer air. But wait, I am skipping ahead.

  
  

  One can break my trip into three distinct parts: Getting There, Being There, and Getting Back.

  
  

  Getting there

  
  

  Travelling with children under the age of, say 18 is not to be taken lightly. First, one must ensure that one has sucked up to every available ground staff and cabin staff in the vicinity ("Oh thank you so much Steeeve"). That way, you get pillows and blankies first, your meals first and a good steady supply of vodka to ease you thru those 'oh my god these kids haven't slept in 14 hours' kind of panic. Also this means you get extra colouring books, chocolates from first class. All you have to do is get your oldest child’s arm in a pinch-twist and threaten to actually flush the airline toilet while she's in there if she doesn’t say 'please' and 'thank you'. (This works better if you tell her that it sucks nasty rude children into the toilet and then plops them into the ocean with the poo). Nice polite children are easy for cabin staff. And for Mum.
  But neither child slept. Hub did due to the law that seems to dictate that if Mum and kids and Dad are all together, Mum still works and Er... Dad is on holiday. Whatever. We had an eight hour stopover in LA which involved ferrying kids and baggage on an airport bus to a hotel and then trying to check in while seriously jet lagged and stinky. The hotel was okay; never again will we share a room with the kids. They sleep like wild animals. No one slept and our bankcards mysteriously didn't work so we were living on the $50 US we'd had the foresight to change at the airport. Funny how it goes less far then it did the last time we went overseas - sans kids. Apart from the basketball court that was positioned next to our room (can you say 'ker-thunk, ker-plappity, ker-plappity, ker-thunk' all night?) and my incandescent rage that turned into meek acquiescence when I actually stormed out of the room and met said basketball (one word. T.A.L.L.) - The stopover was liveable.
  Two out of three sisters met us at the airport, which was a delight and warmed my heart to no end. They hadn't changed a bit. Mum and Dad looked older and weary.

  
  

  Being There

  
  

  My folks have a pretty flash house in a very nice area and well.... sorta reminds you that you don't. Or at least, reminds my hub that our house, while lovely, doesn't compare. So he always is a little on the back foot when we visit home, some sort of crap about feeling less then adequate. Although I reckon it's got more to do with being seriously out numbered by women and not only that, women who are mouthy and smart and not afraid to tangle. It must be a weird experience. You'd think he'd have more confidence since he lives with one of those women, but alas.
  Anyway, it's too damn cold to take the kids out, so they spend most of their time watching PBS Kids and going feral. While my parents pretend that they aren't noticing that the house has become a dumpster and that kids are screaming and shrieking and chucking Wobblies all over the place. My oldest persists in practicing her dance steps (totally made up) in the kitchen, looking like a demented Kate Bush in the throes of performance art, while my youngest crawls over the expensive flooring leaving a trail of puke like a slug. Parental smiles get strained and grandparental smiles become grimaces.
  
  I got to go out a bit (my parents are really a tad too long in the tooth to ferry a fat crawling baby up and down stairs for nappy changes or to lift a hysterical 3 year old off the kitchen floor) – a memorable Sushi dinner with my youngest sister which allowed us to mend some bridges (although I must admit, I feel less than accountable for atrocities I committed at 13, nonetheless, said cruelties such as locking her out of the house or tying her up with skipping rope and leaving her in the closet apparently leave scars, and who am I to judge?). Anyway, she’s a peach and once she sorts out whether she wants to be a team player or run the team, she'll be fine. She's just married so her time with me was limited, but then again, I am not much more than a blip in her life, so what can I expect? Maybe next time.
  My second youngest sister and I are very close, so we hung out big time, and I’ve already mentioned how great she is. I am sure she was bored sometimes, I am sure she had things she wanted to do and I am sure she felt like I was being a big drag and her own life was being put on hold. But she came and hung out and did stuff knowing she wouldn't see me again for a long while. That meant something special. Suffice to say, if the weather wasn’t so damn cold and I was younger, she’d be a major reason to move back home.
  My next in line sister I didn’t see much of. Actually  4 or 5 times in the two months I was there. She’s pretty busy and pretty important and well…. She has her life; it’s unfair of me to assume that she’s going to put it aside to hang out with me, especially since I live so far away. We have lives running on totally different continuums, I guess. I am not competing. I just wish we'd had more time together. Life's so short, you know?
  My mother is well, though as stress prone as I remember. (I get my online name honestly). She frets and worries and gnaws each and every issue to a little nub that she can bury and then dig up later when she needs something to worry about. She is far more patient with the kids than I am, and it was good to see how it is ‘done’. I think grand-parenting must be great – all the wonders of kids and no 3am wakeup calls.
  My father was in good form, generous, humorous and full of wisdom. He’s a smart smart man, and I judge all other people by him. He is getting a bit curmudgeonly now (he’s 70) but I think when you get to a certain age, you should just be allowed to tell people to fuck themselves if you feel like it. And he does. Though not in those words. He writes a lot of letters to the papers, sorting out the world.
  So the holidays were frantic and crazy and lots of women in kitchens screeching about who hid the whipping cream and lots of kids hopped up on sugar and bursting into tantrums and equal amounts of dramas and tears at any given moment. In other words, the usual gig in a family that defines ‘highly strung’ by whether you cry if people leave the table before Christmas pudding. (Yes, there were tears over this issue). But it was good. It reminded me of all the wonderful things families give you, and all the things that you want to ignore and pretend that they aren’t part of you. I know when I get tired, I get snappy – so does my mum. I know that I like to solve every problem immediately and hate rehashing – ditto sister #3 and my dad. I know that the endless dramas make me crazy and make me want to run away like sister #2 and I know that I worry about my identity like sister #1. And that’s who I am, the good and the not-so-good.

  
  

  Getting Home

  
  

  Was a breeze. Despite the tears and scenes at the airport, my oldest was the poster child for air travel (a shock considering her previous performance at the age of 6 months). She was helpful, articulate and a real pal. My youngest was a pill, but then she had just started crawling and was determined to keep on going, so the seatbelt thing didn’t work so well.  I didn't help much by taking to have her nappy changed twice an hour, until I figured out that the guy next to me was farting in his sleep. I think I was overcompensating for being the woman with the kids on the plane that no one wants to sit beside. Personally, I think my seat neightbour should come with a warning stamped on his ticket. My kids weren't stinky. I abstained from booze (a first for air travel) and managed just fine. Apart from long interminable lines in LAX to get past security (yeah mate, do I look like I even have the energy to hijack a plane when I can't even get my stroller to work?) , it really wasn’t that bad. I am proof that a neurotic woman can indeed, manage 19 hours of travel with two kids under 4 and survive without the aid of drugs. Go figure. Of course, when I got home, I immediately cracked open the bottle of vodka and started drinking, but then no one is perfect.

  
  

  And now I am here, in plus 38 degree weather (close to 100 degrees F for you Yanks) and slowly getting adjusted to whatever life is like with two active kids instead of one active kids and a blob-baby. The house seems strangely empty without women clogging up the stairways whispering about the latest dramas or having heart-to-hearts perched on the kitchen counter. My house is just a wreck and hell... I just don't care. I miss my family, I don't miss the cold and I don't miss the dramas. But I sure do miss the love.

  • 1:40 am
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