A One and A Two and a One Two Three

My five year old, Lanes, is on summer holiday. This means two things. One, I'm lurking around the greater Vancouver area giving Einstein a run for his money for the World's Worst Hairdo. Two, I barely have a minute to blog. I suddenly realized what day it is and so I supplied Lanes with some clay to buy me a few minutes.

I wanted to log on last night but there was a thunder storm outside. Flashes of brilliance illuminated the room even with the faulty blinds drawn and the lights off. I thought the weather was cozy and I pretended that wizards were zapping each other in the sky, but I kept my thoughts away from the impressionable mind of my offspring, who no doubt would feign fear to avoid bed time.

Any old how, I decided to stay in bed and read a book.  I also had a long day because Lanes had gone to her first ballet class, and although it's not too far away, the bus ride is 45 minutes each way and it was really hot and she was wilting and in between all that she scored a piggy back ride from me--that lasted not even a minute.

Luckily, as I was entering the recreational facility, I met the mom of one of Lanes' friends from preschool and turns out her daughter was in the same class. I was about to stop at the reception to ask the room number we should be in, but the mom forged on with such authority and conviction that Lanes and I followed her like little lambs to her Mary.

After the girls were deposited she went on about how great the teacher was and said her daughter had taken ballet before. So I was quite confident we were in the right place, and I was pleased as punch because I had promised Lanes play dates when she was missing her friends over the holidays and I thought this counted as one, or so I would conveniently make it seem.

Today I get a call from the center asking why Lanes never showed up for her class. After a confused exchange between the two of us, the penny dropped for the person calling me and when I told her what room I went to, she had a good laugh and told me that I had taken Lanes to Traditional Chinese Dance class.

Not knowing a plie from a pirouette, I just assumed she was doing something that looked like ballet the five times I peeked from outside.  The person calling from the center then further explained that there are ballet moves involved in the Chinese dance class so that's why I wasn't aware anything was amiss.

Any old how, turns out Lanes' friend was also in the wrong class and that lady couldn't believe two of us had happily sat through the wrong class. Meanwhile, Lanes claims she loves the class she went to and wants to stay in it. That would make her the only brown person in the class, and it's fitting, I suppose, because when she was three she came home from preschool one day very sad that she was not Chinese.

Tomorrow, I have to get there early and navigate the building and make enquiries and somehow convince Lanes' friend's mom that we were in the wrong class.  I wrote down instructions to the room on a piece of paper I'm bound to forget at home, because that's what I do. I always make outfit and handbag changes at the last minute and leave important things like house keys, Costco cards or grocery lists behind.

In the next blog, you might find that I put Lanes in fencing class by mistake and with our genes, that just won't do for any one in the vicinity. All I know is that ballet is held in the Judo room. Silly me for not knowing that.  Meanwhile, my methodical spouse P, is still shaking his head and I think he has decided that I'm beyond help.

I used other mom as an excuse, but he has declared me incompetent and he is wondering why these things only happen to me. Correction, why these things are caused by me. I don't think it's a big deal. At least we accidentally stumbled upon something Lanes is really into. The good news is I think the other mom might be as chaotic as I am. I should invite her over for lunch one day when P is not around. Two of us might be too much for him.

If P and I didn't have a huge age gap of a few months more than half a decade, and we went to elementary school together, he would be the one who sat front and center in class with sharpened pencils and cellophane wrapped text books. I'd be the one who forgot her back pack and was more concerned about not having my lunch box rather than my homework. Oh well. I survived well and good.

Speaking of which, I'm trying valiantly to stay on my liver preserving diet, but it's not working. Lanes had back to back parties this weekend, and between the scorching heat and my grumbling stomach, I just ate what was given to me because I was having a good time.

My gluttony has not gone unnoticed by my homeopathy doctor. As a result, I'm strolling around with my ear full of little band aids, each holding a little seed. I'm supposed to apply pressure to each one several times a day so that I could give myself acupuncture or acupressure or something like that. He pressed them really hard to show me how I should do it, and I can't help but wonder if he was wishing he could really pull my ears for frolicking with the mocha lattes and french fries.

I look like I got patched up after repeatedly stabbing myself in the ear with a fork or like I went to get extra piercings in my ear and the person with the piercing gun started sneezing and put multiple holes around my ear. They should design fashionable tiny square band aids for this purpose--like the cartoon ones Lanes has. Maybe I should think of that as a career option. It could be the next great invention.

The band aids are a horrible shade of tan that clashes horribly with my skin tone. I was debating putting rhinestones on it, but I was not sure if it would dress it up or just draw more unwanted attention to it. Or I could let Lanes go crazy with markers on them, but with my luck she would doodle on what little of my ear is not covered with permanent markers and I'll have to go to her first day of kindergarten looking like a graffittied wall in a tube station.

My nutty sister was wrinkling her nose with disgust when she visited a couple of weeks ago and she was about to grab me by the ear and scrub it all off until I explained to her that they were there for medical purposes. She told me that she thought I had dirt in my ears and that she had a strong maternal urge to power wash my ears and give me lectures on personal hygiene.

On that bright note, I have to sign off and pinch my ears and see if P is still shaking his head in horrified wonder at the things his wife does.  More musings from BC next week...and do leave some comments!