Rant: it’s not segregation, really. Really. Really.
The Toronto District School Board voted this week to create an “Africentric” school in order to address the fact that black kids drop out in higher numbers than other groups in Toronto.
In case you need a translation, that’s a black school.
Of course they handily ignored that unlike in some areas of the US, “black” in Toronto means: Somalian and Ethiopian refugees (I myself am curious as to whether the refugee kids are most at risk of dropping out, but since they’re being quoted as “black” kids it is hard to tell), Canadians of Carribean and West Indian descent, etc. etc. There is no one “black culture” in Toronto. There is no one “black neighbourhood” in Toronto. Toronto never had a post-slavery ghetto like that.
Our neighbourhoods don’t really work that way, and even where they do, they are small enclaves so that in the schools there tend to be a wide mix. Also although there are poorer/rougher areas of Toronto, they are nothing like in the US. Regent Park (slummy) sits pretty much next to Rosedale (about as snobby & rich as you can get). Having driven through south-east LA and driven though Detroit many times, it’s just not the same.
So… I don’t even know where to begin with this. Why would bussing kids around to get all the black kids as a school with a particular curriculum be a good idea?
At first I thought maybe I should have no opinion, since it does seem to be mostly black parents who are asking for that kind of school and maybe they know best. But then I got really, really angry.
First of all, I bet there ARE problems with the curriculum, so why not change the curriculum across the board? (Replace one of the Orwells with Achebe, really, that would be a good thing.) Why should my kid miss out on black history and culture (and south-east asian, and asian, and and and) because he’s white? (-ish; we have a decent streak of first nations too)
Second, if the problem with “kids who drop out” is that they are in schools where not everyone is like that, what implications does that have across the system? Are we going to set up Indian schools and Cantonese schools and Mandarin schools and Philipino schools and… grr.
But thirdly I just don’t see how this is going to help the kids. I see four potential outcomes:
1. The school will, regardless of how well it is actually doing, game the system to show what a success it is and we will never know
2. The kids that self-select to go there will do well, and it will be called a success, but the reason will be the self-selection
3. The kids that go will be the kids in trouble, or a usual combination of ok and not-ok kids (just meaning academically there) and the stats will either meet or be below board-wide standards
4. The school will be a wild success and then kids from other cultures will want to go there and they will try to gatekeep by race and the Human Rights Commission will come down on them
Mostly my reaction remains: ??!!!???
If the school is in my neighbourhood, which it might well be as we have plenty of black kids here, I’d be tempted to send Noah, except I don’t really intend to use him as a political statement err, ever in his life.
But mostly I am so sad. What the hell? Just What. the. hell.
Rollercoaster ride to nowhere
Another mommy/worker paranoia post, sorry. Better posts to come!
So this morning Noah woke up with two massive reddish-purple circles under his eyes, a little puffy, and he was a bit clingy. After some discussion Carl opted to send Noah to school, but work from home so he would be close by. He also asked them if Noah had fallen the day before, because a quick Google search pretty much said “bad concussion” or “allergies.” We eliminated concussion based on Noah’s behaviour, other than the clingy bits, as totally normal (and checked his pupils, etc. etc.) and no headache and stuff but… it stuck in my mind.
I called the daycare a couple of times to check up on Noah and they reported that his eyes were getting puffier and he was pointing to his throat, at which point I panicked on the phone and the director was quick to assure me that they did NOT thing he was having an anaphylactic reaction. But I sent Carl to get him anyway.
Carl reported that the puffiness increase was way overexaggerated but I was not convinced. Sadly all this took place on a very hectic business day and since Carl was there I didn’t leave (otherwise: so would have been there) until a half hour early but then I took off and drove home… to find Carl was right, Noah’s eyes looked about the same to me as they had that morning.
I was so torn at work. I was having nightmarish visions of the school missing an allergic reaction, or that they had shaken him (shaken baby syndrome!!) or that his skull was coming apart. And at the same time I had to trust the people he was with to recognize if something terrible was happening. Which I managed, barely.
I had booked him at the doctor so off we went.
The verdict? Apparently when your nose is stuffy, esp if you are a child, the blood can’t get through the tissue as easily and so it backs up to under the eyes. And you can tell that vs. bruising because if you press gently but firmly on it, it goes white, ’cause the blood is getting pushed back in the vein, whereas with a bruise it would just stay there. Noah’s fine; ears, nose throat, chest all check out.
I am a wreck. Honestly. My work is a very stressful implementation phase and it’s sort of Emily’s season and it just feels like A LOT. And Google does not help with its hits on “parents who missed the signs and their kids DIED” on the topic of ‘black eyes concussion’.
But, all is ultimately well. Phew.
Meal plan
Last week’s meal plan went well, except that the sloppy joe mixture was very yummy and everyone was extra hungry, so we ended up with an unplanned night’s gap. Normally I think we’d’ve just made something else but I’d had a crazy day at work and Carl had too and we just… ordered pizza. Oh well!
Noah wasn’t a fan of the squash soup: he likes his soups with pieces in them, like minestrone. He also decided to go on a cheese toast strike. He ended up eating everyone’s peas (must have been about two cups’ worth) and a veggie dog instead one night, and leftover pizza the other.
Here’s this week’s plan, retroactive ‘cause that way I have a record of it:
Sat – my parents were over and we had mashed carrots’n’turnips, beet salad, orzo with peas, and pork schnitzel (from the store, the last, but a sad substitute for the fresh salmon I wanted, but was sold out). It was yummy and not too many leftovers, but a few.
Sun – Cabbage mess. Err, that requires explanation:
As part of our family table, Carl brought from his branch of the tree this tradition of having a massive dish of ground beef and onions as the meat dish (usually flavoured with oxo cubes or the like), served with pan-fried potatoes and a salad or something like that. I liked the simple concept of serving just cooked ground (beef, at the time) without having to shape it, etc., but I couldn’t handle the lack of vegetables.
So over the last oh, I don’t know, since we gave up being vegetarians, I’ve gradually shifted the proportions so that it’s more like a mess of chopped vegetables, sometimes with potatoes and sometimes not, sometimes with beans and sometimes not, mixed with a small amount of ground chicken (usually) and seasoned with garlic, oregano, basil, and rosemary. Thyme if we had it instead of rosemary. Vegetables under normal circumstances would be onions (onions are key!), zucchini, eggplant, carrots, celery, and maybe some spinach. So something like a ratatouille, but with meat in it. And lentils. And potatoes. Sometimes. Hence the term “mess.” In stores I guess it would be called a skillet supper? Not sure. Mess is more descriptive.
It’s not an elegant dish as you might guess from the title, but it’s versatile and tasty and we usually serve it over rice. The ground chicken/turkey/pork/beef keeps the cost down enough that we can usually swing buying the organic or “traditionally raised” stuff. That’s the trade-off instead of doing more of a chicken type stir fry.
With the advent of the organic food box and its endless winter cabbage, I looked around for recipes and found a cabbage recipe that was suspiciously like “the mess” except it involved a can of diced tomatoes and ground beef and onions and that was it. After some experimentation I found that if the cabbage is chopped relatively finely, and tomatoes are indeed present to give some moisture and sauce-like feel, then it’s actually not a bad addition/substitution in the mess.
So last night’s was: ground turkey (1/2 lb), onions (2), garlic (2 cloves), carrots (4), orange pepper (1), cabbage (1 small head), collard greens (couple of leaves that were left) and tomato (1 can, diced), with lots of seasoning, over rice. Noah ate two bowls, so go him.
I can’t believe I wrote that much about what’s essentially a meal made out of whatever is left in the fridge before the box comes. ☺
Mon: you guessed it, leftovers. With working I just figure why have one meal when my massive skillet holds enough for two!
Tues: Lentil squash potato sausage stew in the crockpot, with ciabbata buns and snow peas
Wed: Leftovers again! But this night I am also going to make lentil-rice “meat”balls in advance.
Thurs: Spaghetti and balls
Fri: leftovers or French toast
As a two-week pattern I guess it’s fairly clear that I aim for a couple of vegetarian meals, which doesn’t quite seem like enough. But in my defense, the amount of meat in the other meals is proportionally fairly small – a ½ lb of ground turkey over two nights, and in the stew it will be 4-5 sausages (depending on which packet I pull out of the freezer; they’re from a local butcher) over two nights. That’s sort of the direction I’ve tried to go in, especially as we introduce Noah to a range of food.
Noah’s lunches at daycare are fabulous by the way. They come from a company called Real Food for Real Kids that I adore. They supply healthy meals that are mostly modular like burritos that the kids build themselves (whole wheat tortillas, lettuce, tomatoes, with a vegetarian option), pitas with greek fillings, tuna wraps, pasta primavera, vegetarian chili, etc. Fruit for dessert, sometimes with yoghurt, and once a month they do sundaes with frozen yogurt. When it’s a single dish meal they always have side dishes with it in case the kids don’t like it, and every meal has side options of raw veggies and healthy dips, to keep the kids interested. No hot dogs, nuggets, mac and cheese from a box, zoodles, or anything like that. Just from looking at the menu I’ve gotten ideas. It also takes some of the pressure off if we have pizza one night. For this we pay $65/mo.
And he will have his revenge
(Close readers of this blog will probably see where this is going.)
For three years in high school I had a regular babysitting job on Friday nights, where I would pick up B., a precocious only son, first at daycare and then at his carefully chosen private alternative (Sudbury-like) school, and bring him back to his house, feed him, play, and put him to bed. Then I would get most of my homework done, helped in part by the fact that theirs was a TV-free household.
His parents (a therapist and a professor) would enjoy dinner and a movie, or whatever, and come home giddy. They all lived in a very nice condo that was stocked with classical and musical theatre records (yes, I’m that old), a piano, and an extensive and interesting library of books, mostly philosophy and psychology and literature.
B. had a complete obsession with Les Miserables, the musical (prior to and during its run in Toronto). And although I was quite a bit in love with this family (in many ways they were my first introduction to what parenting could be like, maybe), I didn’t like that B. loved in particular to scream the worst lyrics out of ‘Master of the House’ at top volume. In this condo, where there were neighbours and all.
So in my teen way I wondered why on earth you would choose to expose your child to that sort of thing, even though I loved Les Miz. (In fact I ended up bringing B. to my school’s concert the year “I” (Lynn) sang a solo there).
All of which is to set up the karmic debt here as I confess that Noah has a new musical love of his own.
There’s a hole in the world like a great black pit
and it’s filled with people who are filled with shit!
And the vermin of the world inhabit it!
(Noah’s version: Dere’s a HOLE GREAT PIT and people SHIT and norld IN IT!)
And now I know the answer: probably they wanted to listen to it now and then, perhaps even on a tape (ancient again, I know) in the car. Like we did a couple of times to Sweeney Todd.
Life and times
Noah’s Free Will Horoscope: Leo (July 23-August 22)
We all tend to project onto other people the unattractive aspects of ourselves that we refuse to acknowledge. We’re also drawn to anyone who expresses the fully activated versions of our own sleeping potentials. Everywhere we go, then, our vision is clouded by the disowned psychic material that is floating around our unconscious minds. That’s the bad news, Leo. The good news is that in the next eight weeks you will have an enhanced ability to get access to the liabilities and powers that are buried beneath the surface of your awareness. As a result, your ability to see the objective truth about the world around you should grow dramatically.
Monday night Noah slept all night through, in our bed (by his choice). Ah blissful slumber.
Last night he went to bed in his bed (his choice). Around midnight he woke up asking to come into the big bed. I said sure. Then he threw himself down on the floor between the two beds (in the hallway) and sobbed for 20 minutes, alternating requests for beds. I said, occasionally, that he could go to whichever bed when he was ready. I also told him it’s hard to want two opposite things. And that he could have a hug whenever he wanted.
Eventually he appeared in the big bed, and slept pretty much through to the alarm this morning.
The only thing I can say is good about this phase is that I have managed to let go of it, in that I am just letting it happen. As much as possible my strategy is to take myself out of the equation and let him struggle with it (with me nearby for support, but so that the cup of milk, or whatever, is where he can decide whether to take it or not).
~~
This morning I had a total (and embarassing) freakout. I checked out the new City of Toronto daycare rating website, and I thought our daycare had rated a “2″ which would be “borderline ready to shut it down.” I emailed the directress to ask about it, and I set up tours of two other daycares, and was checking out more ratings when I realized… my daycare was not actually rated. I was looking at the MAP NUMBER. Oops. I had to email again really quickly.
I am wondering, though, if this was a spike of intuition. It’s not that I don’t like Noah’s daycare; I do, very much, and he seems very happy there. Except that they have a new volunteer parent that I don’t like, for no good reason, which sometimes means a really good reason. I think likely my spike was more guilt than insight, but I’m going to muse on it for a few days.
ETA: I snuck up on the daycare and things were just fine - happy children, singing, activities. I think it was just fear.
Antinomy
I am tired and having trouble concentrating and, quite frankly, jealous of non-bechilded loves who get to go have naps on their Monday work holidays. Not everyone is as blessed as I am in having people to listen to me whine, but really, when said people get to go LIE down and then get to watch a WHOLE DVD, whenever they want, and not just in the dead of night or during a nap (and have to spend the last 15 minutes of it watching while a child chants “no Mooooooovie, no MOOOOOvie mummy” in the background) - it is not fair! Or something.
(Also, said nap movie? Was Cheaper by the Dozen, which you think a young lad might laugh about or something. But apparently Steve Martin is “too scary,” which may be a stunning display of taste but really – it wasn’t like it was Harry Potter or something. And yes, I turned it off. I presume everyone ends up loving each other and their lives madly. Or something.)
Anyways, I am tired because 2.5 has hit. And Noah, at 2.5, sleeps in his own bed (by his choice and fiat). Except, of course, that whenever he wakes up he must yell down the hallway (or into the monitor) until someone (me) appears. And then we have the following “conversation.” You can substitute almost any activity here.
“My want cup milk”
“You want a cup of milk? I’ll get you one” (I get one)
“NO CUP MILK”
“Okay, I’ll put it here.” (pat his back, for 3 seconds)
“My want MILK”
I half turn towards the cup
“NOOOO” shrieking and wailing
(3 second delay)
“Mummy, my NEED milk”
“NOOOOO MILK”
Repeat the last bit. For half an hour.
Then do it two hours later about whether the blanket is on.
Then do it an hour later about whether to leave the little bed and come into the big bed. At which point watch the addendum take place: “I’m going to get your daddy.”
“My daddy!”
“NO DADDY”
Etc.
Ambivalence, control, rebellion… whatever it is, please, o possibly benevolent universe, let us all get through this phase with our dignities intact. I’m thinking that this is a phase, but if it continues, maybe I’ll get Noah checked out for… what, I’m not sure? Grumpityitis?
So far I have tried removing the object of choice (screaming), reflecting the ambivalent feelings (screaming), offering hugs (screaming, or clinging and crying), walking away (hysterical screaming) and um… saying “OH GOD” and going and getting Carl. (Crying, but effective for me.)
Oddly enough, during the day he is mostly his rosy self.
Other than that, though, it was actually a lovely weekend. We went to a buffet place to belatedly celebrate my birthday and it was a smash hit with the under-3 crowd. All the melon you can eat. Playgroup went well and the boys actually sort of played… together, like interacting. They each had a stuffed monster and roared at each other, which was too cute.
And oh yes, I got my hair dyed crazy red. Pics sometime next century when I don’t look 80 from lack of sleep.
Meal plan
I want to get back to talking about food more, so as I’m writing out this week’s meal plan (I only write out dinners; lunches are leftovers or sandwiches for grownups, provided by school for Noah; breakfast is oatmeal, cereal, or peanut butter toast plus fruit) I thought I might as well post it here.
Sun: balsamic “roasted” root veggies in crockpot (they are on already; it’s a new recipe I’m trying out with potato, carrot, onion, parsnip, garlic, chicken stock, balsamic vinegar, and a bit of brown sugar - all veggies came in the The Box this week so it was a happy coincidence) + tilapia, if there is still any good tilapia left at the store; otherwise some kind of protein you saute up.
Mon: ’sloppy Joes’ (crockpot), in quotes only because mine will have a fair amount of cabbage shredded in there and is half beef, half tvp, on buns, + peas + salad
Tues: sloppy Joe burritos (leftovers + grated cheese + tomatoes) + broccoli
Wed: butternut squash soup (crockpot) + cheese toast + salad/whatever comes in the box that needs to be cooked faster
Thurs: pasta + pesto + romano beans + whatever greens I shred into the sauce
Fri: leftovers &/or french toast
Phew
The trouble with having been sick last weekend is that we lost a weekend - which, on the two-ft-job treadmill, seems like rather a lot to lose. The cat hair takes on a life of its own, and little junk piles seem to spring up out of nowhere. The good thing was that we were mostly eating soup and toast up until Wed or Thurs, so at least not getting the grocery shopping does was no biggie.
However, aided in motivation by a 10 am playgroup hosted here this morning, I’m pretty well caught up, and that is a nice feeling. Even if it meant a rather early start.
I think I must be officially middle aged now
Even if 60 is the new 40 or whatever. I don’t know. I’ve lost track; I just know if I can end up as smart as the people I get to work with in 3 years I’ll be happy.
But this is a confessional piece ’cause yesterday I suffered an acute case of nostaligia-itis coupled with white horse disease. I feel hungover! I dreamt about past love. I performed the internet equivalent of hearing your ex-boyfriend is in the hospital and turning up drunk to play him the mix tape of the songs he used to sing for you! Or something! I hope the wince factor in that image will spare you the feeling of disappointment that I don’t want to get into it. (I… don’t want to get into it, yet. Perhaps I will get to bring the ex chicken soup and we will end up friends. Or perhaps hospital security is on its way.)
Do you think there’s a time in your life, call it the Friends phase, when you are tasting your new independence as an adult, that you somehow bond with people and places and ideas differently? Such that they get added in some way to your spiritual concept of community, a tribe of sorts that even if you don’t speak, even if you end up in some totally other place, still remain somehow linked with your adult identity? Or do you think this is a multiple thing (because this particular group is definitely all-Shandra)? Because sometimes I feel like I can never escape from those things whereas later, equally real and at the time consuming experiences, are still not a part of me in the same way.
I’ve made up with/stayed friends with/re-become friends with a lot of people from that time, which means they must have some equivalent process going on or they’d just tell me to go f-myself right? Maybe not.
Anyways. Life abounds. I wonder if I can turn this into an article (not this particularly, but there is something there).
Coup d’etat
Well we all came through the stomach flu that we all came down with. It was interesting to have both parents down… Noah was a trooper, especially drugged up on the book of the devil Diego and Mr. Rogers and the Sound of Music. However if you are an adult and about to spend a night in a floaty nauseous half-asleep half waiting-for-the-next-bout state, don’t watch the Sound of Music. It makes a very unpleasant ear worm during the process.
I thought we might de facto wean, due to the night Noah couldn’t nurse combined with the night I couldn’t (and he did fine, the trooper), but no, the following night he nursed as much as possible and even asked during the day too. Probably partly for comfort and ’cause breast milk is actually easy to digest (no, it’s not dairy, she said pedantically, having had to explain this a zillion times to well-wishers), but also I think to assert his rights over The Nurse. It’s funny how what the whole experience really showed is how our nursing is winding down on its own overall - when he really wanted to nurse, I was not used to it, and there was a serious lack of supply (not helped by the flu). Maybe I will let go of the rudder for a bit and see what happens.
(I sound very calm about this but actually, when he was still nursing on an empty breast after 45 minutes of it, we had a squabble and I was not exactly the parent I want to be. I believe I said “OH MY GOD” and I know I stormed out of the bedroom for a few minutes to compose myself. But then we worked it out. After 15 minutes of crying on Noah’s part. Sigh.)
Still the renewed closeness and bonding and all made for a bit of a shock when the following night, last night, he demanded to sleep in his own bed. (Guilty note: maybe he hates me now due to the God remark! Oh wait, he’s a helpless child driven to bond with his parents… he doesn’t get the luxury of hatred for a few more years.) Not that it had to be much of a demand; he was ushered into it ever-so-quick and tucked in and kissed. And he slept there until 11 pm when he woke up cheery as a lark and asked for a nurse, which was granted unto him.
Then we had one of our big Oedipal conversations, which seem to be rising in prominence (isn’t this early???). “I’ll go back to the big bed when you’re asleep, but you can just call me again if you are scared.”
“No mummy sleep big bed. Stay in Noah’s bed. No sleep with daddy! Stay with Noah! No daddy! Noah!” (Note that I did not bring the daddy factor up here.)
Eventually we all ended up in the big bed, predictably, but he says he is keen to sleep in his own bed again tonight. I tell you the child has his own agenda, along with plans for a coup d’etat where Carl’s supremacy is involved.