The 5 Second Rule of Engagement - featuring Butter Bowls & Mother's Roles

I have never considered myself to be an overprotective parent.  I frequently...okay, always abide by the "5 second rule" whenever my kids drop an item of food on the floor or ground.  I don't even bother to count if the landing area is a lap, car seat, or the top of the dog's head.  If the landing zone is sketchy then I'll just count to five faster so not as many germs get a chance to hop on for the ride.  So far, it seems, this approach seems to have worked well - the kids are still alive and kicking.

My lovely wife, Lynda, does enough "mothering" of the kids for the both of us.  Case in point was this very morning. I was heading out the door to pick Kendall up at the swimming pool and then drop her at school when I was handed a larger freezer bag containing a copious amount of Cheerios in a reemployed butter container that was now full of skim milk.  Don't worry, a spoon and some napkins were cozily nestled next to the cereal and milk too.  Lynda must have seen the "What the..." expression I was wearing at that moment so she explained that Kendall had said that she hadn't much time in the mornings and wasn't eating her breakfast.  No sense questioning.  Twenty something years of marriage and fourteen plus years as a father has taught me that.

So as Kendall jumps into the car and buckles up for the commute to her junior high school, one that takes no more than five minutes, even in the St. John's' version of rush half hour traffic, I show her the freezer bag that her mother has prepared.  Now it is Kendall who has the 'What the..." look on her face, which appeared as no surprise to me.

I tell Kendall that her mom wanted to make sure that she had her breakfast before going to school. Kendall laughed and went on to explain the recent conversation she had with Lynda that may have been the catalyst for her mom's concern. Kendall had recently mentioned to Lynda that the lineup at the pool's Tim Horton's is often way too long and that she would be late for school if she tried to order from there.  The school's breakfast program, although awesome, is usually out of her favourite breakfast food, bagels, by the time she arrives and that she is usually stuck with having to eat a bowl of cereal.  Somehow Kendall's version of events was interpreted by Lynda as "pack breakfast for Kendall and make sure it is cereal and milk that she will eat in 3 minutes or less with a small plastic spoon while sitting in a car driving up to 70 kph on the Parkway and stops and starts suddenly for traffic lights, traffic, and pedestrians".

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What do you think the odds are that a 14 year old girl would take the chance of wearing her breakfast rather than eating it and showing up to junior high with a huge milk spot on the front of her blouse?  I have found that milk doesn't adhere very well to the "5 second rule".

I'm writing this morning from Starbucks, where wifi is free, offers bottomless coffee with my Gold Starbucks card, and the leather chairs are comfortable, even if they do have more than their share of milk stains. There's no chance I'll be adding to those stains today.  This butter container is actually a very good cereal bowl so the milk will go precisely where it is supposed to.  So tasty and I'm saving $3 by not having to order the bran muffin.  Just one caveat though,  On the off chance that I drop a Cheerio or two on the floor her at Starbucks, then to heck with the "5 second rule".  Some rules are okay to break. I think even Lynda would approve.

Depot was Home

 A young and mustachioed Constable Nixon can be found as the 3rd guy in, on the right hand column.

Twenty-five years ago this past week I became a member of the RCMP.  Four years ago this week I also became an ex-member of the RCMP.  It's those earlier years that I'd like to focus upon today. More specifically, I'll recount a few of my more vivid recollections of those first six months as a Mounted Policeman.  Those were the Depot days, on the fringes of Regina, Saskatchewan.  By the way, Depot is not pronounced the way we say it when referring to the retail store, Home Depot, nor does it sound like Dee-Pot.  It is Dep-po (the first syllable rhymes with "step" and in the second the "t" is silent).  Get it right or you'll find yourself CB'd next weekend!  That's confined to barracks.  Or maybe it'll be a week of "Bozo Parade" - 6:30 a.m. full uniform inspections in the drill hall, conducted by a crusty, loud, caffeine deprived Corporal, who, in the world outside of Depot is merely a low level supervisor, but within the confines of the RCMP Training Academy, a corporal is a demigod.

I lived in D Block.  My home for those six months consisted of a 12 inch slab of foam on a metal frame for a bed, a few drawers and a closet.  There was also room for the tickle trunk, which was pretty much the same size, shape, and style of trunk that every RCMP officer since 1873 has had the honour of owning.  There was an expansive community bathroom and shower area just down the hall. What more could a 24 year old bachelor ask for!  Well, maybe a few walls?  You see, my room was also the bedroom of 31 other guys.  Sixteen beds lined one side and sixteen the other. We were alphabetical.  Nice and orderly.  The RCMP way.  We weren't 32 individuals.  We were Troop 20 - 1989/1990.  All for one, one for all.

In some strange way I actually enjoyed Depot.  I was in great physical shape going there and after 6 years of university I had learned a thing or two about cramming and the nuances of how to study effectively.  I found out I was a natural marksman and all those childhood scrapes with my sister had toughened me for the rigors of ground fighting sessions during our self defence classes.  Some of my troop mates weren't as prepared, so that made for a hellish first few months. The thing about the RCMP is that they instill a sense that your troop is only as good as your weakest member.  It certainly provided an incentive for the guys who needed to get better at pushups, running or swimming to put the extra hours in a night.  It also taught us to help one another and not to only think of yourself.  For those who didn't buy in there was no where to hide. Your harshest critics or your biggest supporters were an arms length away....literally....day and night.

It was interesting that I shared my living space, or pit as it was known, with Roy Nishimura, a Japanese Canadian from Edmonton.  Roy was.....interesting.  The normal 5:30 a.m. wake up for the troop just wasn't early enough for Roy.  At 5 every weekday morning, Roy would begin pruning and preening our pit.  The first few times I thought I was experiencing a nightmare, one where a monster with one bright red eye was preparing to devour me.  It made a menacing, hair raising, swishing and swooshing sounds that surely had to come from a relative of Godzilla.  No, it was just Roy.  With a mini flashlight clenched between his teeth and his steam producing flat iron in hand, Roy was getting a head start on his daily chores.  He was ironing the blanket on his bed. Yup, you read me right. Believe it or not, the actual act of ironing one's bed is not abnormal in the Depot world, but doing it before the lights came on, when sleep is a very precious commodity not to be wasted, is very strange indeed.  I may have razzed Roy somewhat but I didn't stop him.  It turned out to be a great move. Each and every weekday morning, by the time I had gotten up, showered, returned from breakfast (or Bozo Parade), Roy had not only tidied up his part of our pit, but mine too.  I never dusted once trying my entire stay at Depot, although I did iron my bed a few times, but usually just with the flat edge of a metal clothes hanger to get out the major wrinkles.

Here's something funny too.  I never slept in my bed, ever.  We learned from more senior troops that sleeping ON the bed is a better way to go.  Sleeping in the bed meant body hair, messy sheets, and dirty pillows, all things that were easily spotted during the daily inspections of the lurking corporals. The way around this was to buy a comforter and pillow and use them exclusively.  During the day, those non-RCMP issued items were then hidden in our tickle trunks. Nothing is sacred when you are a recruit, nothing that is but the inside of your trunk.  That was off limits to everyone.  It was the part of a recruit that helped protect and maintain his or her individuality.  We all dressed alike, were given identical haircuts, had to conform to rule upon rule, but the trunk remained that bastion of who we truly were, Twenty-five years later I still have my trunk.  I always will.  I no longer have the pillow and comforter though.  They went in the garbage on June 4th, 1990, the day I was presented with my badge and was unleashed on the world as a rookie cop.

I have lots of fond and some not so fond memories of life at Depot and of living with 31 other guys. I'll save those for another day.  In case your curious, Roy Nishimura was posted to Whistler, BC after graduation from Depot.  I guess the Force figured that with so many Japanese visitors to that resort town, it would be a good idea to have a friendly and familiar face wearing the uniform with the yellow strip down the leg.  Perhaps it didn't really matter that Roy couldn't speak a word of Japanese, nor did he know how to ski. The RCMP must have known what I had known, that Roy did a pretty good impression of a beloved Japanese folk hero - Godzilla.  What the RCMP failed to realize is that Roy's Godzilla wan't visitor friendly at all, as it only came out just before dawn.  They also should have known that Roy's dusting skills may have been better served somewhere on the dry and windy prairies.  All they had to do was ask me.  I could have been found at Bozo Parade.

I Really Am Cool

What a horse's ass I turned out to be this morning!  It seemed like a fairly innocent comment.  At the very least, it was one that was meant to be funny, with a touch of father-to-daughter "love you no matter what" thrown in for good measure.

Avery, 12 years young and new to the wonderful world of junior high, was struggling with a fine case of bed head.  Her mom was in the bathroom with Avery and they were tag teaming to tame the menacing mane.  I just happened to walk by at the very moment Lynda had lassoed Avery's hair.  I couldn't help it, it reminded me of a horse's tail, so that's exactly what I blurted out and chuckled as I did.  Avery burst into tears and Lynda shot daggers at me with her eyes.  I scurried off to empty the dishwasher.  I understand that a whole lot more than I do the fairer sex.

Normally, my attempts at such humour are met with rolling eyes or maybe even slight smiles that daughters 1 and 2 attempt to hide from my view.  (Avery has a 14 year old sister, Kendall.) God forbid that either of my offspring should ever have to admit that their father, whom they've come to call "Didi", actually made them laugh out loud.....I guess to be hip I should use LOL or ROTFL.

Keeping up with the tween and teen Jones's is proving to be too much for my middle aged (and then some) self.  I realized this a few months ago.  As a dad who is heavily involved in his kids' lives as a sports coach, chef/fast order cook, and taxi driver of the teen horde to and from the mall, I believed I was the bee's knees, the #1 Dad,  No doubt I had earned the prestigious label of "cool dad". My bladder burst when my girls informed me that, in their world, cool was actually an acronym that stood for Constipated-Overrated-Outdated-Loser.  They ROTFL!  I cried on the inside.

As for her hair, Avery won the battle by employing some sort of double bun combination.  She looked cute as a button.  It turns out it wasn't really her hair that made her upset and that it was other things. I didn't pry. I'm learning.

I drove Avery and Kendall to school but we arrived late.  I asked if they wanted me to come to the office with them to explain to the staff why they were late.  "No", blurted Kendall, "that's cool." Off they went to join the hundreds of other,s all born since the new millennium.  What do they know about the real world?   Meanwhile, I'm off to Starbucks to write my blog, have a bran muffin, and a Tall Dark Roast.  Hmmmm????  I think the kids could be right, I just may be one cool dad after all!

When Kids Cry....I'm Likely Close-by

So I took a swimming trophy back from a little 10 year old girl at a recent meet!  I didn't mean to give it to her in the first place.  I had mistakenly thought that she had done just that (as in finished in first place).  Surely she didn't feel too embarrassed?  After all, there were only a few hundred people in the stands watching all of this.  She's young, she'll get over it.  I say that in hope, but I know if it happened to me that I probably wouldn't.

And why the gigantic alligator tears from the grade 5 kid at last week's chess tournament?  Surely it wasn't because I chose to use "rock-paper-scissors" to eliminate either him or his opponent after several games lead to neither claiming victory.  Stalemate was not an option.  If I hadn't resorted to a more expedient means of deciding a victor then we'd still be in the school gym waiting for one to finally checkmate the other and I'd be the one crying.  Was it fair?  Probably not.  Would I have felt the same as that little boy and cried a river?  You bet.

I fancied myself a pretty good hockey coach, always believing I had the best interest of the kids at heart.  My last coaching stint left a lasting impression on me and taught me that my best effort may not be good enough.  Sure, most of the boys had a great year but there was one who slipped through the cracks.  I had no idea that he was so unhappy and that he considered it to be his "worst year ever".  Once again, my actions precipitated the opening of the floodgates.  Those tears drowned whatever desire I may have had to continue coaching.

Hockey, chess, swimming.....and I'm only scratching the surface on just how good I am at making kids cry.  I've coached basketball and softball too. Maybe there's a message there somewhere?

My own family is not exempt from Jim - The Tear Jerker!  On any given Sunday, my brother Bill, his wife, and three young children come over for a family gathering so we can all scoff down whatever feast (must include gravy) mom has prepared.  Now his kids are age 6 and younger, so one never knows what mood and manner each will be bringing with them.  Inevitably, I (Uncle Jim) will swing one around too fast, bop one little head off another, or scare the daylights out of one or all three because I happened to shout too loudly at my older brother Gord or one of the dogs.  You guessed it, tears begin to stream from my nieces or nephew.  They often continue unabated until Grammie comes to the rescue with visual distraction, also known as a homemade chocolate chip cookie.

Perhaps this tendency to induce tears comes naturally to me.  As a kid I did more than my fair share of shedding.  There were sports teams I didn't make, awards I didn't win, got beat up, broke bones, bitten by dogs, stung by bees, bike accidents, two brothers and a sister to learn to live with, parents, and the mind and body altering teenage years.  No wonder I balled so much! No wonder mom made such good chocolate chip cookies.  They were her tasty, edible pacifiers.

Perhaps the wisest thing I have ever did was to move back to Newfoundland in 2004 after being away for fifteen years.  It's no coincidence that this move occurred not long after Lynda and I had children of our own.  It was also no accident that our home construction plans included a living area for Grammie.  My children, Kendall and Avery, are great kids and were phenomenal babies.  But even phenoms cry and with me as their dad they were guaranteed to do more than their share.

Grammie's cookies have saved the day for us on numerous occasions.  They put a stop to the waling and balling that came naturally with being so young, as well as for those instances when I may have done something to accidentally induce the tears.  There have been a few times over the years when the cookies failed to do their magic.  Perhaps I shouldn't totally blame Grammie's baking abilities.  I may have had something to do with why her secret recipe was not able to hold back the tears of my children (her very precious grandchildren).

How was I to know that little kids would get upset when their dad took back their cookies and ate them?  I figured, being not long past the rug-rat stage, that they'd get over it.  Also, they were so young that I believed it was likely they'd never remember that I re-gifted the cookies anyhow.  Turns out I forgot one important thing - Grammie remembers.  Since those days of my gluttony, all chocolate chip cookies are now taken straight from her oven, packaged and delivered to Kendall and Avery for their sole consumption.  None for me, ever.  I could just cry!

Southern Charm - Floridian Tales

I am presently in Florida.  No, I am not telling you I am half a continent away so that any would-be B&E artists amongst you can violate the sanctity of my home.  I respect my readers too much to even think that.  Also, I recruited the kid from Home Alone to house sit (the one from the first two movies, as he was definitely more creative and vicious than those in the umpteenth sequels.

I share my geo-location only because it is relevant to the telling of this story.  Even more relevant is the company I am keeping.  Of course Lynda, Kendall and Avery are here, but joining us on this adventure are: my mom (Grammie); my mom-in-law (Nanny); and Lynda's brother, Adam West (Batman).  

My stories almost always result from the things people do or say.  That is what I find most compelling.  People never fail to disappoint.  They always provide excellent material.  You just have to watch and listen.  Of course, it doesn't hurt to stir the pot sometimes either, just to make the story in waiting that much more tasty, albeit not necessarily more tasteful.  I digress.  Here are a couple of incidents from early in our vacation, compliments of my daughter Kendall and Grammie.  I have labelled them as Funny and Not So Funny, but whether they are is ultimately up to you.  I am but the messenger.

Funny

All seven of us were on the can't miss ride, It's a Small World.  I think it looked exactly the same as when I first came to Disney in 1972.  Surely the words to that song become implanted in everyone who rides in those boats on rails and to all who become entranced by the vivid colours and the global, heart warming theme of the experience. Everyone in our boat, as well as those folks nearby, were all quiet, perhaps even reflective.  That was when the silence was broken by my 13 year old daughter.  She loudly exclaimed, with partial disgust and iPhone in hand, "Hey!  There's no WiFi down here.".   She has a point,  it is supposed to be a small world after all.

 Not So Funny

Typhoon Lagoon took on No Holds Barred Grammie and won the day.  Determined to do whatever rides her granddaughters do, and do them better, Grammie donned her not-so-bikini after a six year absence from all things swimming.  She warmed up well.  The Swirling Beast was no match for her tenacity.  In retrospect, riding on top of an inflatable rubber life raft perhaps should not be considered such a mean feat.

With confidence assured, Grammie followed along as we ascended the many steps to the top of the next adventure - a virtual free fall down a tube of white water.  No rubber rafts this time.  Grammie was equipped only with her wits and her millennium era swim suit.  I made sure to precede Grammie so I would be able to capture the spectacle of her splashdown.  Instead, what I saw was my 75 year old mother arriving at the splash pool at the end of the "ride" and remaining submerged and remaining submerged and..... 

Grammie reminded me of Jack, as he followed the Titantic to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, arms waving, no panic to be seen, just acceptance.  I watched, waiting for her to standup - the pool was about 30 inches deep, but she didn't, and she didn't and she didn't.  My mom was drowning!  

As Batman looked on, I jumped in front of the lifeguard, who was not doing that job at that particular moment, and pulled my mom from the not so icy depths.  She was unflappable.  Grammie said she thought it was all just part of the ride, although she said she couldn't have held her breath any longer.  There's no way Grammie would ever surrender to fear or a near death experience.  For her, it was, "What ride are we doing next?".   Unflappable!  I put my glasses back on, tucked my cape back into my Speedo, checked in my superego, and returned to being just another nameless face in the crowd.

If there's a lesson here, it is that Grammie needs to learn, that when submerged, to be a bit more "flappable".  At least a little bit so that the lifeguard will notice.  We don't want to lose the one and only Grammie.  A world without Grammie would be a too small world after all.

The End

About the Author

Jim continues to vacation in Florida, where there is no snow.  Earlier today he received a call from his lawyer.  Apparently, he is being sued by both the propane delivery guy and the NL Power meter reader.  Each sustained significant injuries while approaching the Nixon house over the previous two days.  The perpetrator is reported to be a 30 something year old male, who says his name is Kevin McAllister.  The police [presently have my house surrounded and are trying to get him to come out.  The cops say they may use water cannons, but it's a last resort because it has a history of not working. (No kidding!  Can you say - Leo Crockwell?)  My lawyer tells me that everything will be okay, after all, Kevin is Home Alone.

Man Cave Mathematics

My chest swelled with pride.  My daughters wanted me to play video games with them and they weren't taking no for an answer.  Perhaps I was still the 'king of cool' in their eyes.  My girls, now 13 and 11, wanted their daddy, so how could I refuse.  I followed them down to the room that when I built this house ten years ago I had envisioned to be my man cave.  It was to be the place where I, as head of the household, would go to regenerate, to relax after a day of hunting and gathering.  A place where my woman and my offspring would enter only to bring me my slippers and an occasional glass of milk, to be accompanied by a row or two of Oreo cookies (the dark ones, not the vanilla wannabes; and always eaten whole, never cracked open to slurp the creamy filling all by itself. Sacrilege!)

My cave never was to be.  Soon after moving in, it became the vault for precious treasures.  That would have been fine but I had neither ownership of nor say in these riches.  I'm not sure that I minded though.  I just wanted that room to be mine and mine alone.  It was never to be.  My kids strong-armed it from me. They are tough little girls.  They, being two and me being one, had the strength of numbers.  More importantly for maintaining their claim to my cave, they had the ever present, lurking in the shadows, not to be crossed, support of their mother.  One of the biggest surprises in a man's life is when he learns this mathematical equation: (MOTHER > wife).   There are never any exceptions to this rule...never.  As a result, I learned another equation:  (KIDS > husband).  By using the transitive property or my take on it, it then makes sense that: (KIDS > husband) (husband = man cave) (husband < = 0), therefore (man cave = ain't never going to happen).

In the early days, my room of desire was filled to the rafters with such wondrous things as: Barbie's extra large play house; a few thousand stuffed creatures; several large bins that had gazillions of those stupid, useless and one use only McDonald toys; and few million dolls in various stages of undress with many minus a limb or two.  Mr. Dress Up would have have been envious of the number of princess dresses and costumes that overflowed from several more large bins.  He, Casey and Finnegan could have been trapped underneath those mountainous piles for all I know.  I never went in the place.  I just did an occasional wishful glance through the doorway as I swept, mopped and did my daily household chores, ever mindful that Cinderella had triumphed.  In my daydreaming, I pictured my kids bringing my cookies, milk and slippers and fittingly, my slippers were glass.  I was Jimderella.

Today, that room is the "playroom".  The Wii and Xbox are kept company by girlie coloured bean bags.  No war games make it to the big screen.  The girls prefer less hostile pursuits.  Their latest craze is some kind of dance thing on the Xbox.  This is what they asked me to play with them.  I'm not exactly built for dancing of any sort, nor have I been gifted with much rhythm. I held my own on the dance floor in the 80's by doing the ankle slap - 2 side to sides, one step forward and one step back.  Throw in the occasional Night Fever arm in the air, pretend to know the words, and you were golden.  There was no phone camera, no video this or that. You just had to survive three or four minutes and you could get off the floor, ego in tact.  Such is not the case today.  Even the damn video games have cameras!

There I was a few days ago, on the dance floor of the kids' playroom, sandwiched between my two little girls.  The proud and popular dad.  Or so I thought.  The music began and I quickly learned that the object of the game is to copy the moves that your video image is performing on the TV.  While doing it, we were laughing and having a great time.  It's also not a bad workout.  After our song ended, the scores popped up and I was third or last.  The game said I was "creative", which was a nice way of saying that I didn't exactly copy much of what my image had done.  This was not unexpected.  What was unexpected is what happened next.  The kids played back segments of our dancing.  I was worse than I ever imagined.  The ankle slap wasn't as timeless as I had thought.  To add insult to injury, the kids then proceeded to do weird things to our images.  One was to make our heads two or three times there actual size.  I have to admit that it was funny to watch.  My girls and I laughed hysterically and I felt all warm and closer to them than ever.  This was a wonderful daddy-daughters moment.  That was until they informed me that I looked like Shrek and they proceeded to laugh even harder.

I think I was set up from the beginning.  I certainly can't be mad at my kids for poking fun at me.  They actually weren't wrong.  Shrek is green and that colour describes me perfectly.  Green with envy because they have my man cave.  I won't try to get even with with my kids either.  They likely come by there deviousness honestly - from their mother, Princess Lynda-ona.  To end my story, here's one last formula that may be foreshadowing events to come: (Wife > husdand) (husband = dead man).  The end!

For Change Sake

"Nothing is as constant as change."  Not my words, but ones so very very true.  How about this one - "A change is as good as a rest."  Again, not mine, but I sure believe in its message.  Now when you combine the message in these expressions with one of my all time favourites, then we've really have something prophetically profound.  "If you've got an itch.....scratch it."

Ten years ago, that exactly what I did.  Lynda and I were living in Burlington, Ontario.  Kendall and Avery were three and one years of age and went to a wonderful lady's house whenever we trotted off to our jobs. We all resided in our quaint little bungalow, in an established area of the city, with massive oak and maple trees lining our peaceful suburbia.  After being there for 8 years, we had formed great relationships with many of our neighbours too, with a lot of them becoming more like family than merely just friends.  We had a pool.  The weather in Burlington is ranked as being near the top for the entire country.  We loved the warm summers and short winters.  Lynda also loved her job.  As for me, I was no longer working the dreaded weekend and night shifts and had settled into a Monday to Friday day job as an investigator of white collar crimes for the RCMP.  Not much of a requirement to wear my bullet proof vest in that gig, albeit the paper cuts were brutal.  At least they were until my fingers toughened up.  Perhaps I should have used the puncture resistant gloves that I had dawned so often whenever I was searching the person, vehicle, or anything to do with a suspected drug trafficker.  Oh well, hindsight is 20-20.  (No, again, not my expression!  I need to work on being more original.)  I certainly can't forget Doug and Dallas.  Our dearest friends and soul mates.  Transplanted Newfies too, they lived not too far away and we could usually be found together, doing some of the "funnest" stuff and making memories to last a lifetime.

By any measurement, my life was pretty good a decade ago.  I could have easily convinced the RCMP to leave me in the Greater Toronto Area for the remainder of my career, so no one was likely to force us to leave the home that I had lived in longer than any other during my entire life.  No one, that is, except me.

I still don't know what exactly it was that caused my itch.  I just knew that I needed a change and that my family did too.  Perhaps it was dad's death a few months earlier.  That is the most likely candidate.  I spent a few weeks back home during dad's final days and after he died.  I left Newfoundland in 1989 and this was the longest time that I had spent back there since.  When I returned to life in Ontario, I developed a yearning to go home.  It seems that no matter how long they are away, transplanted Newfoundlanders always call the place home.  Lynda needed some convincing, quite a bit actually.  Eventually she came on board and I was able to call in a few favours and by the summer of 2004, we all had relocated back to the island.

Today, we have a wonderful house, with a view of the ocean to die for.  We live in the woods.  There is lots of privacy and we enjoy doing so many outdoor activities that come with being nestled in our quaint little town.  The kids are 13 and 11 and this is the only home that they remember.  They love it here.  My mom lives with us.  She has her little apartment downstairs and she is the glue that bonds us all.  Her baking is pretty good too.  We have great neighbours and have watched families grow and prosper during the last 10 years.  Lynda has worked at the same company for the last eight years and enjoys the challenges but welcomes the flexibility the job provides so she can partake in the kids' activities.  I'm no longer in the RCMP, having burned the candle at both ends for too many years, my mind and body told me it was time to leave.  I have tinkered at several jobs but because I haven't jumped back into the workforce entirely.  This has afforded me with the opportunity to spend so much more time with Kendall and Avery.  I am blessed to have had this opportunity and it's my most treasured gift.  As for the weather here.....it sucks.

So guess what?  My itch has returned.  Change is in the wind.  I don't know what yet, nor do I know where. I just know that it is very likely that a year or two from now, things will be very different for me and my family.  I'll take my time, think it through, and consult Lynda constantly, so that we make the best decision possible.  It's just like when you go on the city bus and the driver says..."Correct change only."

As for my life so far, I wouldn't change a thing.

Father Christmas Kicks Butt

I had a very quiet Christmas.  It was by choice.  Perhaps I was a little humbugged about it all.  There was no reason for me to be like that, I just was.  Sometimes that's just how it goes.  So for my many friends out there, don't be offended by the absence of a card in the mail or in your in-box, by the non-call, or by the no show of me gracing the threshold of your doorway.  I still think about you often.  Okay, okay.....so maybe sometimes it's when I am wondering whether my gift from you may have been lost in the mail.

As out of season as I may have been, I certainly did my fair share of giving during this festive time. I know it is far better to give than receive, but I am beginning to wonder about the merits of that joyous expression.  I had such a run of bad luck that maybe the spirit of Christmas was silently giving me a kick in the ass for not feeling the love of the season.  Briefly, here are some of the things that have happened to me over the last few weeks:
- truck broken into, window smashed and backpack, with laptop and other items inside, taken
- stepped on my glasses and crushed them to bits
- furnace conked out during coldest day of the year
- hot water heater pipe busted but only minor flooding in garage
- leak in roof

I feel like I am forgetting a few, but it's giving me a headache to thing about it any more.  You get the message.  The giving part of all these calamities is in the cheques I have written.  Merry Christmas to my plumber, mechanic, optometrist, handyman, and building contractor.  To Father Christmas.....I get the message....LOUD and |CLEAR.  What's your address?  I'm putting your gift for 2014 in the mail immediately.  Just one thing, will you take a cheque?