Author Archives: Nicole Boyhouse

Did you hate junior high? I did.

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I was talking to a couple of moms whose sons are slated to start junior high in the fall, and, being the optimistic ray of sunshine that I am, I sighed for them. Junior high is the worst, I said, it’s horrible and I have virtually no good memories of that time. Then I realized that perhaps such comments are not exactly supportive and positive, so I amended them with a comment that junior high is probably better for boys, anyway.

I think that’s true. Junior high boys are ensconced in pubescent idiocy: farting on each other and hitting each other in the testicles during dodge ball and just being jackasses in general. However, that idiocy is easy to take compared with girls that age and their secretive cruelties, their struggles with body image and their emotional bullying. I mostly remember feeling awful about myself and crying a lot.

A few years ago I was talking to a woman about Facebook, which was fairly new to me at the time. She was very much against a Facebook account because, as she said, if she wanted to be in touch with anyone from her past, she would be, but essentially she didn’t want to connect with any of those jerks. The thing I have found is that, just as I have changed, so has everyone else. I was holding on to negative memories for a long time and I found that those bad memories just don’t matter anymore, that people from my past can be an enriching and supportive part of my present, and I’m grateful to have them in my life.

In my twenties, it was all about proving myself. I needed to prove myself in university, I needed to prove myself in my career, I needed to prove myself as a mother. Then I got tired. I don’t feel the need to prove myself anymore, I’m just me, the person I want to be, even if that person is a bit lame and boring.

Recently I came across a picture of myself on the first day of junior high. It’s quite hilarious, what with my gigantically teased bangs, denim skirt, white Keds, and, inexplicably, a button down shirt tied in a knot a la Daisy Duke. If I knew how to work my scanner I would show you, if only for comic relief. I am smiling hugely in that photo, like every door in the world was suddenly opened for me, on my first day of junior high, not realizing then that my smiles would largely disappear for the next three years.

Fishing, but not camping.

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Another May long weekend has come and gone, bringing with it the chilly temperatures and rain typical of May long, and in Alberta, an alcohol ban in campgrounds around the province, all of which I’m sure made for some unhappy campers. It didn’t affect me though as I am decidedly not a camper. I am not of hardy camping stock. I love the outdoors but I greatly prefer sleeping comfortably within doors, as well as hot, non-coin-operated showers and the ability to apply makeup without being mocked for wearing makeup while camping.

Instead of camping I spent a very large portion of the weekend playing Go Fish. I was running errands and saw a pack of alphabet themed Go Fish cards, and thought, “Go Fish! That will be fun!”, which subsequently circumscribed my weekend. I’m not really complaining though, Go Fish is greatly preferable to the usual endless and arbitrarily ruled games of Bakugan, or the disturbing, circle-of-life games in which I am cast as the peaceful, plant-eating dinosaur who is being stalked and, eventually, killed by the vicious meat-eater.

I know a few parents who avoid spending time with their children, who view family time as some sort of unreasonable sentence and their children an annoying inconvenience. Such children inevitably become horrible little bastards who no one wants to be around which is somewhat circular. And this is so sad because one of the greatest joys of being a parent is creating someone who you can enjoy and want to be with, after all, the days of Go Fish and endless, tedious games of Bakugan and dinosaurs are fleeting indeed.

Randomness: Jeopardy, Miss USA, and Brahmin Widowhood

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During the season, my husband golfs. A lot. Frequently he golfs in the evening, and I take advantage of such time by indulging in such activities as watching seasons 1-4 NYPD Blue on DVD, or Jeopardy, during which I tersely and quickly phrase answers in the form of questions, out loud, naturally. Secretly I prefer Celebrity Jeopardy so I can run the categories and also berate the celebrities for answering Montreal instead of Vancouver, or some such transgression. The past few days, however, have showcased the Tournament of Champions with the corresponding very difficult questions. One of the contestants going into the final is a video game tester and I feel that there is so much to be said about video game tester as a career choice, but I don’t know where to start so I shall leave my commentary unsaid.

Doesn’t it sound like it would be awesome to live with me? Put the kids to bed, crack open a bottle of wine, and watch Jeopardy with intense scrutiny and seriousness, only to fall asleep at 9:00. I’m a barrel of fun! I was chatting with a group of fellow early morning yogis, and my lovely, lovely teacher was telling a story, the punchline of which was “Well, it would be better than phoning at 9:00 and waking everyone up” to which we all nodded gravely. 9:00! It’s like the middle of the night! My people! I love you all, you crazy early birds.

But Sunday evening my husband was golfing, and sadly, Sunday evenings are Jeopardy-free, so I curled up on the couch with the excellent book about life for a Brahmin woman in turn-of-the-century India, “Toss of a Lemon”. Just as I reached the part about her attaining widowhood at age eighteen, after eight years of marriage, and her subsequent head shaving and state of purity that dictated she be out of public view and essentially untouchable during daylight hours, I reached for my glass of wine and noticed what was on television: the Miss USA pageant. I looked from my book to the TV and back again, somewhat taken aback by the contrast.

I am secretly a bit fascinated with beauty pageants. The Miss USA pageant, in particular, is absolutely mesmerizing. For one thing, the contestants all wear the same clothes for much of the pageant, and despite variations in hair and skin colour, they all look disconcertingly the same. They could be essentially split up into two physical categories: those who have had breast implants, and those who have not.

What I really like about the pageants are the shots of the girls all hanging out and doing various activities all together. “They went shopping at Vegas’ newest hotel!”, “Then they cooled off in the pool!”, “They had a sweet time at the cupcake shop” (although I would have liked to see some of them eating those cupcakes, I very much doubt if any did). I always imagine these to be a total cat-fest, but a veiled one, because no one wants to be TOO bitchy, but damn, that Miss Maine had some bad split ends. Although that may be unfair of me to say that, since the only pageant contestant I have ever known personally was a former colleague’s wife, who was runner-up to Miss Nebraska. This woman, in addition to being stunningly, All-Americanly beautiful, was also one of the sweetest, most generous people I have known. In the end, the woman who won was an MBA with a concentration in economics! My people! Kind of.

Grandpa Burger? and other tear jerkers

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I, for one, was not at all shocked or surprised when I heard about Robert Munsch and his various troubles. It seems that individuals who are exceptionally gifted – which I think he is – are frequently troubled by mental problems, which often manifest themselves in addictions. I also think it’s very brave of him to come forward with his problems.

That said, I have never been a fan of his. Love You Forever is one of my most hated children’s book, despite its reputation for being the literature epitome of maternal love. To me, it is creepy, and smarmy, and over the top. And I’m a smarmy and over the top person, but not, I hope, a creepy one. In fact, it is incredibly easy to make me cry. All one needs to do is say, stiffly, “I come watch” as per this commercial and I will get choked up. Another one that makes me cry is the A&W commercial with the cranky older man who receives a Grandpa Burger from his son and daughter-in-law. “Grandpa Burger?” I kind of wish that was how I told my dad about my first pregnancy, instead of the normal “I’m Pregnant” way. During that pregnancy I craved A&W hamburgers all the time. Perhaps it was that commercial that did it? We’ll never know.

So, despite my propensity for emotional tears, Love You Forever has always left me cold. Other childhood books that are immensely popular but that I detest are Where the Wild Things Are, The Chronicles of Narnia, anything by Tolkien, and the Harry Potter series. I know. Everyone loves Harry Potter. A certain relative of my husband’s couldn’t BELIEVE that I don’t like Harry Potter, and quizzed me endlessly on WHY, and what is WRONG with Harry Potter, and don’t I like MAGIC? Apparently I’m not the magical or imaginative type.

The books I loved as a child were those set in the late nineteenth/ early twentieth century featuring a plucky heroine. Does anyone else remember the book What Katy Did? I loved that book as a child, fascinated with the plotline – Katy finally being cured of her tomboyism by becoming an invalid. Awesome! Did anyone besides me read the Elsie books? Now there’s a literary relic if there ever was one. I remember being extremely confused reading those as a child: I had no clue about slavery, Southern culture, or even what a plantation is, and I found all the various family members and marriage age gaps baffling. I also clearly remember the plotline to one of the books: Elsie’s father, angry with her for her literal interpretation of the Bible, withdraws all love and affection until she can submit entirely to his will. Then she almost dies of some feverish, wasting, consumptive disease, and her father decides to not make her a pariah anymore and ends up going to church. It’s a happy ending! A happy ending in Crazy Bad Father Land, I guess.

What children’s books do you loathe and love?

Advice and judgement

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A few months ago, Catherine Newman ran a contest in which entrants were supposed to share the best piece of parenting advice they had received. Someone wrote that, with respect to infants, it was okay to sometimes feel like throwing the baby out of the window, as long as you don’t actually do it.

A number of years ago there was a particularly horrific local incident involving a young mother – a university student from Japan – who killed her two young children. I was discussing the case with a colleague, an extremely kind and gentle man, a devout church-going family man with a penchant for corny jokes. As we discussed the tragedy, he related that when his eldest was a colicky baby, he and his wife were often at their wits’ end, and that sometimes he felt like throwing her out the window.

This revelation shocked and outraged me, a sheltered, pampered, twenty-five year old non-parent. I couldn’t believe a parent would feel like that about their own child. I couldn’t believe that someone could feel that way and still be a loving, effective parent.

Fast forward several years when I was at home, alone, with a toddler who was not yet two and a colicky, sleepless infant. Sometimes my baby would scream, uninterrupted, for hours regardless of my efforts to feed, rock, and soothe him. Hours. I recall one incident when he cried for five straight hours before exhausting himself, as I walked the floor with him, singing and patting and attempting to feed him, all the while caring for my young toddler, by myself, while my husband was working long hours at the office. I understood completely. I felt like throwing the baby out the window, grabbing the car keys, and making a break for it.

I love my children like any mother does, an all-encompassing love, my greatest fear is that something will happen to them, and yet in the moment, I felt like giving up. I felt that way, me with my loving husband and parents in town and supportive friends, me with no worries about paying rent or putting food on the table, privileged, lucky me. If I could feel that way, how much worse would someone feel who was not fluent in the local language, someone with a deadbeat boyfriend and two young children to care for, someone with no friends and little money.

Perhaps some people will be shocked and outraged and think that I am a monster, but perhaps some will recall moments when they felt they were at the breaking point, and how easy it is to become perilously close to a tragic result. It’s the easiest thing in the world to pass judgement.

The Opposite of Toyland, or My Basement is a Recycling Plant

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In honour of Mother’s Day, posted on the wall beside Jake’s classroom is a list of all the children’s names and their response to the question, what makes moms special? I was happy to see Jake’s response, she gives me lots of hugs, as opposed to some of the children who said she buys me lots of toys. Whew. As a matter of fact I do not buy the children lots of toys, or really any toys, with the exception of birthdays and Christmas, but of course they HAVE lots of toys. I don’t know why we even have toys when we have cardboard boxes.

We just had some new furniture delivered: a new table and chairs, and a hutch, and it all came in cardboard boxes. Is this normal? I have no idea. In addition to three huge boxes which have turned into a spaceship, a clubhouse, and an airplane, Mark gathered together a large amount of packing material for his special project: a battle ship/ trap/ gigantic weapon. In other words, our basement looks like a recycling plant. I am torn between being happy that the kids are playing creatively in such an old-fashioned childhood way and also being somewhat distressed at the extreme visual chaos this has caused.

Speaking of chaos, before we sold our old table, my husband disassembled it for storage and transport.

Surfing!

I have to admit I felt completely overwhelmed when the furniture was delivered and the house was littered with giant heavy boxes and the kids were bouncing off the walls with excitement and the dog was howling outside at the commotion. I was surprised to see the table was delivered in a large, very flat box, so I asked the delivery man if the legs were inside. He replied that they were, and I would have to attach the legs myself. “Like, with a screwdriver?” I said inanely, to which he smiled and suggested perhaps I could get someone male to help me. I’m doing wonders for feminism over here, people. Wonders.


Jake also really enjoys playing with eggplants. Bizarrely, he calls them his little doggies. I was slicing one up and he was shocked. No! Don’t eat my doggie!

Mother, that sailor suit doesn’t fit anymore.

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How was your weekend? I hope all you moms had a lovely Mother’s Day. Mine was quite lovely. My husband and the boys took me to the garden centre on Saturday, a.k.a. my happy place. Then it snowed a little. Yes, Mother Nature, I bought plants before the long weekend. Thank you for reminding me why I shouldn’t.

But today was pleasant and sunny which was great as Jake had a field trip to the zoo. On the bus. Without me. I was a teensy bit freaked out about it. I kept envisioning all sorts of insane scenarios: the bus crashing, the school losing him and some crazy person snatching him, animals escaping from enclosures only to stalk and eat him or, alternately, give him some sort of unknown feral disease. You know, just the normal things that a normal mother would worry about. I actually considered not signing the permission slip, but really. Is that a good way to parent? Is that a good message? You are only safe if mommy is with you at all times. Wow, I just creeped myself out writing that.

Did you ever see that Simpsons episode – from many, many years ago when I used to actually watch The Simpsons – where Principal Skinner is using puppet therapy to deal with his overbearing mother? “Mother, I’m a grown man. That sailor suit doesn’t fit anymore!” I don’t want to be like that, not that any of my children ever wore sailor suits, such suits being the height of lame childhood clothing in my opinion.

It’s my goal to have the boys end up independently functioning, contributing members of society, as opposed to 40ish men living in my basement watching daytime television and hiding their porn magazines under their mattresses, claiming that I’m their best girl and that they could never leave me. So this is my first step: a field trip without me. I sat on the school steps waiting for his bus to arrive, saw his happy, proud face in the window, and I felt like it was a very good day.