Hot Mess

I fancy myself a fairly good teacher of things. I can teach people how to squat, tie shoelaces, and kick a ball, but I cannot teach kids how to read. My son, who just turned six, has been doing home reading for the past month at school with the hope that at the end of the program he will read on his own. The kids start with “A” books and progress through the alphabet. The books have thoughtful titles like “Pals” or “Breakfast” or “Ugly Child from 1970.” The sentences repeat themselves over and over, when you are lucky enough to get to sentences because the “A’ books sometimes have only one word or a phrase on the page, like “pleats” or “homo milk.” You would think that the repetition would make for easy reading, but 90% of early literacy is guessing. So even if your child successfully read “I like Atari” on page 1 and “I like tube TVs” on page 3, they might get to page 6 and say “I look Frogger.” WTF? You look Frogger? You just read that same word ten times. Then your child might laugh and correct himself and say “I AM Frogger.” Because that’s right. “Am” and “Like” are often mistaken.

As your child masters his sight words, the books get more complicated. Take “F” books. They might have entire pages without pictures. “The duck is in the pond. The cow is in the barn. The girl on the horse is legally blind without her glasses because they are thicker than a deck of cards.” Has no one published early readers since 1981? But despite your child’s progress, he will make random guesses at the words. Why sound it out, when you could say, just make it up.

“My Dad plays basketball in the rain. My mom wears shoulder pads and a bowl cut. My sister wears clothes from Marks & Spencer. I like to take my dog to the dentist.” WTF? You like to take your dog to the dentist? Does that make any sense? Maybe you need some glasses like the girl on the horse. Try that again. Try sounding it out this time. What sound does this letter make (I point to the P). “G-g-g-g” G? WTF? A “P” does not make a “G” sound. Do people play the piano or do geople glay the giano? “P!” Yes, now sound out the sentence. “I like to take my dog to the p-p-p-p …” Police station? Yeah, that’s it. I like to take my dog to the police station. And after that I like to take him to the dentist. Where would you take a dog? I ask him and he smiles. “To the park?” Yes! I reply enthusiastically. You take your dog to the park. He proudly reaches for a “G” book. “Can we read another one?”  Fuck, no.

A few weeks ago, my husband and I walked into a clinic in the Northeast to discuss the possibility of a 4^th pregnancy. It was the final consultation in a series of probes (see my previous blog on transvaginal airlines). I walked out of the office in sunglasses that did little to conceal what my quivering bottom lip said loud and clear. Three c-sections had left my innards in bits. Everything displaced. Organs fused together like play-dough. No more babies. No more due dates or ultrasounds. No more deliveries. That birth moment when you first see your offspring, limbs outstretched, fingers splayed like they want to go back inside and the accompanying thump of emotion. Heavy and warm, like your heart might swell through your body and float away like a balloon, awakening everything – tear ducts, breath, skin. Even your turned out sleeping legs that weigh a thousand pounds.

All of this and it was the first day of Spring. The irony! It felt like the first day of winter.

Fast forward to last weekend. I played six soccer games in a three day period. Two games in, I had suffered a pair of sprained toes. Maybe they weren’t sprained, but they were black and useless. My husband, who had been playing in the same tournament, had hyper-extended his knee. Neither of us slept the previous night. We could barely walk. After our kids had finished hunting for eggs, we found ourselves on opposite couches in the living room unable to move. I was face down in a pile of my own drool. Our kids took turns poking us. Unsure what to make of their horizontal parents. While the older two chanted about being bored, Rasputin began her daily routine of emptying things – the recycling bin, the dishwasher, the book shelf, the shin pad bin. “What can we do?” My son asked, to which I said “start a fire?”

Too tired to cook that night, we went out for Easter dinner at a Vietnamese place and sat by a fish tank. Our oldest wearing a neon polka-dot shirt and fingerless gloves, managed to hypnotize the tank’s giant goldfish. It followed her movements frantically. Our son, his hair like a rooster plumb, ate chicken with his hands. Rasputin, with equal parts disdain and admiration, screamed at the fish and threw vermicelli at the waitress. And my husband and I, in our Sunday best track pants and yellow shirts sat in silence, dipping our spring rolls in bowls of “crotch water” and took it all in. Our most perfectly weird family of five.

I walked out of the restaurant, patties of rice stuck to the soles of my Tom’s with an overwhelming appreciation for their lives. For every imperfection. Every meltdown, tear, fit, jump, scream, lie, door slam. For eyes that need patching and GI tracks that need fixing. For too many teeth, and not enough teeth. For the confusion that sometimes you put clothes in the laundry and other times you take things out. I sat in the passenger seat on the way home, on the day when Christ rose from the dead and I patted my stomach and very softly whispered to my uterus that it was time to go to bed.

I learned late in my blogging adventures never to write without inspiration. It’s why I’m inconsistent about how frequent and when I post. And lately the only thing I’ve been inspired to do is lie on the floor and play a hideous bubble popping game on my IPhone. I am blue, anxious and disconnected and when I am blue, anxious and disconnected, I am not funny. And today I am celebrating that part of me. I am giving myself permission to hate things. Like the band Fun because lately when I hear their songs on the radio I want to drive into a snow bank. Hey Fun, you want to know what do you stand for? You stand for making people want to puncture their eardrums with their sunglasses. The same sunglasses that supposedly took your seat in the last irritating song you wrote. I hope the next time you look into your nephew’s eyes you turn into something useful – like a litterbox.

Then there are the inspirational messages on Facebook. I’m tired of pictures of mountains telling me to think positive. Guess what mountain? You’re a rock! And telling me to think positive makes you an asshole. In fact there are so many inspirational posts in my news feed I can’t determine who is real and who is a famous person who said something once. Am I friends with Ralph Waldo Emerson? Oh right, he died in 1882. I forgot.  Right now I’m pretty sure I just RSVP’d to Ghandi’s Hello Kitty themed 4^th birthday.

Facebook fitness porn is also getting on my nerves. Don’t get me wrong – I appreciate a good lunge. A nice set of abs. But when I see bulbous toned bums squatting three inches off the ground I just want to ask – where is the toilet? Does she need a diaper? Is she constipated? What is the point of these picture? For months I didn’t know the answer and then one day this week it clicked. All this time I had been teaching and performing squats without caressing my nipples at the same time.

Social media allows us to live in a pretend world personified by cupcake statuses . This is fine. When a day was truly the best ever – that can be inspiring. But lately I am becoming more inspired by the truth tellers. The “I want to crawl under my desk and cry” statuses. The “I’m having problems with my child” ones. The “I’m lonely” ones.  Outside social media too. I was taken by surprise the other day when a friend mentioned in a casual conversation that she was depressed. She said it without  hesitation, without fear, without shame and it was the most refreshing and inspiring thing I’ve heard in a long time. So to honor her honesty and the authenticity of the other truth tellers out there, here are a few of my own status updates for this week.

“I fed my kids hot dogs for dinner this week. With white buns. Pig parts. White Buns. Buns that glowed white. Parts of a pig and maybe a horse. And some colon cancer.”

“I only vacuumed 2/3 of my basement carpet because I can’t complete a task. Ever.”

“I have thirty cents in my bank account until tomorrow.”

“I threw out a cauliflower today. It was rotten. I didn’t feel like cooking it this week. And I didn’t feel like cooking it last week. I don’t feel like cooking at all today.”

“I played 8 hours of bubble pop on my IPhone this week.”

“Today I am blue, anxious and disconnected.”

On the weekend, we made the nearly three hour trip to Edmonton so my husband could visit one of his colleagues in the hospital. This confused our kids who think West Edmonton Mall is Edmonton. Where are the water slides? My son asked as we entered the lobby of University Hospital. And why are there so many people in wheelchairs? Are we in a hotel? I quietly explained where we were and why we were there. My husband left to visit his friend while I sought out ways to kill time. Can we go to that store? My daughter pointed towards a gift shop. She went directly to the rack of personalized key chains. Can I buy some for my friends as souvenirs?

So after an hour of eating ice cream, riding the glass elevators and reminding my children not to ask what’s that smell?, we left the hospital and drove to West Edmonton Mall. The timing was perfect. 4 o’clock. Cheap bracelets at Galaxyland and the baby had just fallen asleep. My husband agreed to split the parenting. He would do the rides with the kids and I would shop aggressively with the baby. I said goodbye and made a beeline towards a swimsuit store where seconds later, Rasputin woke up.

Why are you awake? I asked. I pushed my way to the back of the store with a dozen bikini parts hanging off my stroller. Rasputin was angry and began pulling bathing suits off the wall. I picked them up and hung them back on the racks while sweat began to accumulate all over me because I was wearing a jacket not made of leather, but of sauna parts and a sleeping bag. I ripped it off. Can I get you a room? The sales clerk asked. Yes, I replied jamming a cracker into Rasputin’s mouth.

Safely behind the dressing room curtain I pretended Rasputin and I were friends. In my best mom voice I said Can I get you out of there? Rasputin bounced and shook the bars of her stroller. Get her out of there? What the fuck was I thinking? Within seconds Rasputin had stomped on her cracker and ordered me to take off my bra. Here, I said, play the Tiny Piano. I handed her my phone and she played a few angry notes of the Macarena while I scrambled to put the first of half a dozen tops on. I looked in the mirror in horror. Size small and I could not fill the cups. I’m breastfeeding, I thought. How can the cups be half empty? Rasputin now had my legs in a choke hold. How are you doing in there? The sales clerk asked. I want to kill myself, I said quietly opening the curtain. Rasputin had now crawled behind the stroller and was trying to push it into the hall. Do you have this in an extra small? I asked. I can’t fill these cups. She stared at me and kindly said you have it on upside down. Upside down? WTF?

I pulled Rasputin back behind the curtain, set the brake on the stroller and untied the top. Rasputin pointed at my chest and screamed. No milk, I said. I picked her up to return her to the stroller, but she promptly latched and began breastfeeding vertically. How does it fit now? The sales person asked. It fits awesome, I said. I like the way the teeth accentuate my areola. I put Rasputin down and she promptly shook her head and arched her back. Here, I said, handing her my IPhone again. This time she played a few notes of La Cucaracha on the tiny piano, took a shot of tequila and flashed me a gang signal. I quickly dressed and strapped her back in the stroller wishing I’d stocked up on hospital souvenirs when I had the chance.

For most, the promise of going out for dinner without grubs in tow would be an occasion to look forward to, but my husband and I do this so infrequently that we’ve nearly forgotten the etiquette that goes along with eating in public. That’s actually a lie. He eats out at least weekly with work and has impeccable table manners. I have been known to eat with my hands and get ketchup in my eyebrows. In fact just yesterday I tried to put cover up on a zit that turned out to be sauce. So going out for dinner frankly stresses me out.
First of all, we have no idea where to go. Reviews are contradictory. The service was great. The service sucked. Don’t order the pasta. Order the pasta. So I’ve given up on reading reviews and spent most of the day looking at restaurants online. Some menu items were a paragraph long: Foie Gras truffles served with poached bum confit, with mint leaves, fig cakes and litter box. Others just sounded sick: octopus crostinis with fingerling potatoes and cave-aged cheese. Cave-aged cheese? Do people actually want this? Server: Would you like cheese on that? Customer: Does it taste like a piece of ass?
Even when we do pick a restaurant there is the horror of deciding what to order and because I’m indecisive I often panic and order the grossest thing on the menu. Server: Are you ready to order? Me: I’ll have the crotch biscuits.
There is also self-imposed pressure to get a drink when we go out for dinner as well. Usually it’s a glass of wine that costs more than the shirt I’m wearing and I almost always forget to drink it. It sits there unnoticed until the end of the meal when I’m then forced to chug it scrub style out of my husband’s cleavage while people chant, drink, drink, drink!
So now it’s after 3 o’clock. I have made no reservation despite this being our “Valentine’s” dinner. The babysitter is coming for 7 and I’ve narrowed it down to Denny’s or Ikea. Because nothing says love like Hobbit pancakes or fifty cent hotdogs. Bon Appefuck.

Last Friday I woke up with an imminent sense that I was going to get sick. By 3:00pm the carnage commenced. I parked myself in the hall outside the bathroom while the older kids took turns hurdling over my body and asking for ice cream. The baby immediately took advantage of me, pulling down my shirt and breastfeeding aggressively. At one point she even blindfolded me and made her siblings take pictures of her nursing in all different positions. This continued for hours until my husband returned home from work. By Sunday I was feeling better. I even went to the gym, but by Wednesday night the plague had returned and took both me and my husband down with it.

Thursday morning we tag-teamed to get the kids off to school. I was forced to make lunches, while he took the baby down the street to a day home. When he returned, we went back to bed. That is when the burps started. Egg burps. Rotten egg burps. These were not regular burps. They were from the devil. I was either dying, or had turned into a chicken. Disturbed, I asked my husband, Should I call Healthlink? (a free service that allows you to discuss symptoms with a nurse). Why? He replied, they will just say you have the flu. Then I burped and an omelet landed on his pillow. Did that come out of your mouth? He asked, donning a gas mask. Yes! I said. That’s why I think I should call Healthlink.

Of course I did have doubts. My usual conversations with Healthlink go something like this:

Healthlink: Do you have eyes?
Me: Yes.
Healthlink: Have you had more than one dry diaper in 12 hours?
Me: No.
Healthlink: Can you see your elbow?
Me: Yes.
Healthlink: You have trench foot.

What would happen this time? Would they even know to ask the question, do your burps smell like rotten eggs? And if I said yes, what would the diagnosis be? Likely You are disgusting. So I never bothered to call Healthlink. Instead I built a nest outside the bathroom and pecked at soda crackers until late in the afternoon when I had to shower and drive myself to the doctor. Don’t forget to take some water, my husband reminded, as I dragged my purse behind me towards the garage. Right I mumbled, filling a water bottle with trembling hands. Then I went to the hall, my stomach twisting and grabbed the baby bag just in case. So much for being diaper-free in 2013.

2013 has not been particularly kind. My eldest daughter started playing the recorder, my youngest is addicted to breastfeeding and I look like Gary Busey and if looking like Gary Busey weren’t enough, I discovered FaceTime. Why would someone design an app that converts your face to look like a male camel? This feature was created by an asshole.  It should be called NoseTime.

In addition to a large nose, I am tired. For the past six months I was getting up at 5:00am to write or edit with surprising enthusiasm. I’d drive to Tim Horton’s in the pitch dark, order my coffee and smile thinking of the work ahead. That was 2012. Now I get up, slither down the stairs on my ass, log roll to the van, pull up to the drive-thru window and grunt. Then I drive back home, pull into the garage, don’t stop until I hit my husband’s bike, poor the coffee on my face and promptly fall asleep at the keyboard. I should not be this tired. I didn’t sleep through the night at all in 2012.  So I called the doctor in search of answers. Her solution was to send me for a number of tests, including a pelvic ultrasound.

Yesterday I dropped the baby off at my husband’s work and drove to the ultrasound. Pelvic ultrasounds are pretty boring when they aren’t conducted for obstetrical purposes. After drinking 17 glasses of water I waited patiently for the exam to begin. The technician, a student, took a number of pictures before calling on her supervisor to help. Apparently my uterus was hiding. It refused to have its picture taken. The supervisor arrived in the room. Have you ever had a transvaginal ultrasound before? Transvaginal? It sounded like an airline. Transvaginal Airways with non-stop daily service to Cervix and Bum. “Yes,” I replied. “Once.” Do you mind if we do one today? She asked. Do I mind? No, not at all, I was hoping you would ask. I told my cervix it might be having its picture taken so it wore a dress. “If you need too?” I replied. She left the room so I could put on a poncho, then the panic set in. I didn’t have any back-up feminine protection . I hadn’t had a period in two years. I’d forgotten what they were. No tampons, but I had a diaper. Was this my 2013? Was I going to be driving home in a diaper?

The pair returned several minutes later with a baseball bat. You can insert it, she encouraged.  “Thanks,” I replied. “I can’t wait.” After twenty minutes of playing hide and seek with my uterus, the ultrasound was over. I explained my predicament. “I only have a diaper.” The supervisor returned with a maxi pad the size of a cheeseburger. WTF? It looked like a diaper, only decorated with flowers instead of the baby Sesame street characters that look like they have FAS. I drove off, picked up the baby, and returned home bull-legged and looking even more like Gary Busey.

So here’s to my 2013. It starts today. Never mind wanting to look better this year. My resolution? Diaper-free in 2013.  Happy New Year and welcome back to a Hot Mess.

Last week I stumbled upon my husband and four year old son engaged in a very serious conversation. What happened? I had asked, when my husband emerged from my son’s bedroom. Did he throw something? “No,” he’d replied. Did he say asshole again? “No,” he had repeated, shaking his head in disappointment. “He said he wanted an alarm clock for Christmas.” That’s it? He just told you he wanted an alarm clock for Christmas? It looked more serious than that. My husband sighed. “I explained he should never have an alarm clock until he was absolutely ready to – until he had to.” Right, I replied under my breath, did you also tell him he only had one special flower and that once he gave it away he could never get that special flower back? “I just wanted him to understand that waking up to an alarm each morning isn’t that fun.” Perfect, I had concluded, we’ll skip the alarm clock this year and ask Santa to bring him some crack-laced weed instead.

It’s because of this association – alarm clocks are from the devil – that I was confused Saturday night when my husband became irritated to
learn the clocks went back an hour. That’s a good thing, I reminded him, it means you get an extra hour of sleep. He frowned. I wish we set them forward an hour. I glared at him and ran into the curb. You want to lose an hour of sleep?

Fast forward to yesterday morning and it all became clear. Setting the clock back meant that he’d have to wait a full extra hour for football to start. It did not help that he couldn’t find the Halloween candy to eat the time away until kick-off. I reminded him that sugar was from the devil
and gave him oatmeal and a grapefruit while I swallowed a peanut butter cup whole. At 7:00am he had already set his fantasy football line-ups and read the injury report. At 8:00am he had swaddled a pigskin and was rocking it in the bassinette. By 9:00am I feared a scene similar to Ace Ventura Pet Detective – graffiti on the walls, news clippings pasted on the board and traced into the carpet: fall forward. Should have been fall forward.

I, on the other hand, didn’t mind the time change. I reminded myself all day of how the kids would be in bed early and that I might get some time to myself. True to plan, both kids crashed by 7 and I celebrated by staying up late. It was all good until 4:00am rolled around and my son arrived at our bedside. What’s up? I asked him, did you have a bad dream? “I did have a dream,” he replied. “I dreamt we were at a friend’s house.” That’s it? You woke me up at 4 to tell me you had a dream we were at a friend’s house? “Yes.” he replied. Well, what happened? I asked, waiting for the part about the alarm clock that tried to slit his throat. “Nothing,” he said. “We were just at a friend’s house.” Was Meatloaf at least there? “Who’s Meatloaf?” Nevermind, go back to bed. “But I’m done sleeping.” “Me too,” came a voice from the doorway.

Within minutes, every light was on in the house. UFC 39 started in our bedroom and continued downstairs, followed by requests for breakfast and demands to watch The Princess Bride. By 4:30am I had them set up an inch from the TV with snacks and attempted to go back to bed. “What are you doing?” My husband asked disoriented, as though he’d just arrived back from his Avatar body. Fall forward, I said curling up into the fetal position. It should have been fall forward.  But by then he was already falling back asleep and I was falling apart.

I am seven months pregnant. It has been a long ride since my
last blog, which coincidentally was posted the same day I conceived this baby.
Gross, when you consider that April day was characterized by hairy bulgogi,
dirty change rooms and an evacuation from a contaminated wave pool. Not much
has changed since then except that I grew some udders and now wake up at four.
I own those dark hours in the morning.
Before the snooze button starts and the little people descend from
upstairs and assemble in the kitchen.

This morning I sat at the table and reviewed a story my six
year old had composed with a mix of amusement and pride when I came to the sick
realization that I had had a sex dream last night. With Meatloaf. I began
rubbing Purel over my body when my son arrived at the foot of the stairs and
after insisting I breathe on his armpit, asked if I could make him some toast.
I did both, hoping they would serve as distractions from the post-traumatic flashbacks of paradise by the dashboard
lights, behind the customer service desk at the Superstore and in a movie
theatre with really narrow seats.

My daughter arrived at the breakfast table next and began
rehearsing her story and finally my husband emerged from upstairs. You look tired, he commented. I took a
sip of my coffee. You know how Meatloaf
says he would do anything for love but he won’t do that? He nodded,
obediently drinking down his whey protein. Go
on, he encouraged. Well it’s not
true. I said. He’ll do that too.

He finished his shake and tip-toed out of the kitchen likely
wondering how he came to be surrounded by weird people. Have a good day, I said. You
too, he replied, patting my head. The rest of us finished breakfast and
headed to the bus stop where I learned my daughter had left her story at home. She
started to cry so I told her I’d run back and get it. What if the bus comes? She asked, panicking. Tell the driver I went to get your snack. Then I ran, like a bat
out of hell, on Halloween morning in the snow, 7 months pregnant. Body parts
clapped and shook as they had with Meatloaf. When I returned to the stop out of
breath and disheveled, the bus had arrived and my daughter was already seated
inside. The driver reached out her hand.
Here’s her snack, I said. It tastes really good folded.

With everyone gone his or her separate way, I returned home.
I sat back at the kitchen table and thought about the last seven months; the
lethargy of summer, the acceleration of fall, my complete inability to create
anything but human life. I looked in the mirror, examining my bulging shape and
dark eyes and despite it all, felt pretty good. I savored my remaining few
minutes of quiet, then left to pick up both kids for lunch.

My son and I arrived early at my daughter’s school and we
wandered the halls outside the office to kill time. It was then I noticed the
collage of photos posted on the bulletin board from the school’s welcome back
barbecue taken in late September. Families of all sizes and shapes partaking in
the annual tradition and there on the top, my own family spread across a picnic
blanket with me at the helm, legs apart, jamming a piece of processed meat down
my throat. My jaw dropped in horror. The size of my chest and belly. The drool
that appeared to be coming out of my mouth. The collection of used ketchup
packages at my feet. Then I looked over to see my daughter rushing towards me,
arms wide open, her first lunch date with me since the school year began and I
realized I would do anything for love, and taking one parting glance at the
hotdog photo, like Meatloaf, I’ll do that
too.

On Saturday we made an impromptu decision to go to West Edmonton Mall. My husband only agreed to go if it was in lieu of the Chuck-E-Cheese trip we had originally planned to honor our son’s 4th birthday. I was initially disappointed with the trade off. I had already stuffed an extra pair of underwear in my purse in case Chuck-E was planning on making a live appearance that afternoon. Fine, I relented. We’ll go to the water park instead. He packed the bags while I left to pick up our daughter from dance. Three hours later we arrived at the mall with our reusable Sobeys bags, bed heads and hoodies. The kids squealed with excitement while my husband and I moved our banjo s to the trunk and put in our teeth. Don’t you think we should have at least brushed their hair?

The water park was busy, being a Saturday, but still the line ups for the slides were tolerable. My husband formulated elaborate plans on how we would proceed down the slides and in which order. I could not tell if it was from his frantic speed-distance-time calculations or the stairs’ suspension system that shook considerably six stories up, but he looked sick. I, in the mean time, concentrated on subtle flexing in case anyone was watching.

In between slides we hit the massive wave pool – a favourite of both my children, because they enjoy drinking pool and getting pummeled by waves and inflatable tubes. I especially like it when my kids order me to get down while we’re in the shallow end so that I am in such a deep squat I feel like I’m either supposed to give birth to my internal organs or else trawl the bottom of the pool for fungal infections – or in the case of my daughter – for Band-aids.

What are you doing? I hollered, while swallowing a wave. I’m trying to catch that bad-aid over there, my daughter replied, diving into the floating bandage. I looked at her in disgust while a hairy toe jabbed me in the chest. That is disgusting, I warned, drowning. You do not touch anything you find in a pool. The four of us continued to float around dodging people of various grossness before we split up for more sliding.

When I returned, my husband was in a bad mood. What’s wrong? I asked. The lifeguards won’t stop blowing their whistles, he explained. Well that’s how they communicate, I argued looking up at the red-shirted teenagers posted on all sides of the pool blowing whistles and performing sign language. As if on cue, one blew his whistle and pointed in our direction. I made the gesture for me? while flexing my biceps. The lifeguarded nodded. See? My husband said in obvious distress. I think he just likes my shoulders, I argued, as the lifeguard pointed to his upper arms. Or he wants us to take off Hugo’s water wings. When I gestured back pointing to the water wings, the lifeguard nodded. See he wants Hugo to take off his water wings, and for me to flex my back. My husband gestured back to the lifeguard stop blowing your whistle then looked back at me. Why would he pick on a little kid? He said in dismay. Don’t take it personal, I explained. He’s just doing his job.

Suddenly all of the teenagers started doing their jobs by blowing their whistles and moving their arms. For a second I thought we were clubbing and I too started waving my arms like it was 1996 and I was in Leicester Square. Around the world, around the world! Then I looked around and discovered that everyone was being herded out of the pool. What are you doing? My husband hollered with a kid under either arm. Are you gyrating? They are getting out the nets! He nodded towards a group of lifeguards who began fishing for something in the water. It was then I sprinted past everyone, George Costanza style, and took refuge in the baby pool.

On this note we decided it was time to leave and proceeded to the locker room where we were forced into a change room the size of a broom closet. We were naked and hungry. I reached into one of the Sobeys bags and pulled out a container of mixed berries. What are you doing? My husband watched in horror. Everyone is hungry, I defended. The three of us swallowed berries whole while he said we were disgusting. This while he wrestled to put on a pair of damp boxer shorts with more holes in the crotch than the mesh lining of his swim suit.

From there we proceeded with tangled hair and chlorine stung eyes to the food court. Everyone insisted on eating something different and so we ate in shifts, sampling from each other’s plates despite scowls and protests. My daughter grabbed at some rice with her hands. Don’t, my husband cautioned, there’s hair in it. Hair? I questioned, alarmed, who’s hair? The people who work there, he explained. That’s sick, I said, as he stood with the tray. Oh honey, he replied taking a piece of meat from the plate, there’s hair in everything.