Junior

Summer vacation is officially over as of 7:55 am this morning. Let the education games begin. *May the odds be ever in your favour.* (Can you tell I just watched The Hunger Games? The best part was when it ended. Oh yes, I went there. I'll stick with Lord of the Flies and Piggy for my child on child violence, thank you very much.)

My daughter is a junior in high school, her brother a sophomore. I still remember my first day of school as a junior. I thought I was all fancy in my new shoes and my stiff new jeans and I was making eyes at the senior boy at the back of the bus with big blue eyes.

I spent the entire bus ride pretending I wasn't flirting with him and every time we made eye contact I'd blush and look away. When the bus finally pulled in front of the high school, I had concocted a plan to introduce myself to him. I was going to get off the bus before him, pretend to tie my shoelaces and then pop up in front of him when he got off the bus, thereby forcing a hello.

It was a fabulous plan. It may have worked too. I'll never know. What happened instead was I fell OUT OF THE BUS. Some kid behind me, in their eagerness to get to class, shoved me and I lost my balance because my backpack was crammed full with new school supplies. I face planted into the sidewalk, my nose started to bleed and everyone laughed. Including the cute blue eyed boy on the bus.

He never even stopped to offer me a hand. He just avoided eye contact and kept on walking. I scuffed my new shoes, bruised my ego and wiped the blood off my nose. WELCOME TO YOUR JUNIOR YEAR TANIS. The bell hadn't even rang yet.

Sadly, the first day of class on my senior year was EVEN worse, but that's a story that can keep till next year.

Here's hoping my tribe does a little better on their first day.

To celebrate the occasion, I did what I've done every year for the past 12 first days of school I've had with my kids. I've lined them up and forced them to smile.

Nothing says "Summer is over, get your arses back to class," like me shoving a camera in their faces and telling them to say cheese. Only after barking at them to hurry up and for the love of God, no a can of Coke and a granola bar does not consist a healthy lunch no matter how many times you ask.

This morning was particularly disorganized and if it's a harbinger of school mornings to come, well I am in for a world of trouble.

First, no one wanted to stand for the picture. Because apparently "traditions are pointless and have no meaning."

I may have snarled. And put the fear of death into them at the same time. I don't know. It's all rather fuzzy. I hadn't had my morning coffee yet.

Jumby wasn't quite sure what was going on.

Envision me standing there, with my robe gaping open, holding my camera and screaming out "OW" trying to get my youngest son to smile. (The Jumbster is a bit of a sadist and will routinely smile whenever he hears someone say 'ow.')

Meanwhile Fric keeps telling Frac that he's holding Jumby wrong and he is slipping.

I'm standing there clucking like a chicken, trying to get the Jumbster to look forward when all of a sudden a noise comes from between the kids.

It didn't sound good.

That right there is documented evidence of how two teenaged children react when they realize their little brother just pooped and the only thing between them and 'it' is a diaper and some Old Navy Skinny jeans.

Welcome to the first day of school kids.

Eventually I managed to get a decent(ish) picture. It only required a diaper change, a few threats and a bribe.

I tried taking a few other pictures, you know, just to really push my luck and ensure my kids would have to run for the bus, but once someone busted out with the Zoolander imitation I had officially lost control of the situation.

All of that and we officially missed the bus on the first day of school.

It's going to be a banner year, yo.

Welcome to the 2012-13 school year kids. May your grades be good, your lunches not forgotten and your homework easy. And may your mother not lose her mind along the way.

 *Post Edit*

I want it noted, for the record, that I've actually read The Hunger Games books. And I loathed them. In fact, I loathed the books more than I loathed the movie. Mr. Lady sums up why I hated the Hunger Games books more eloquently than I ever could. Thank God for grammar geeks.

 

The Evolution of A Hug

When I was fifteen years old I learned an important lesson.

Don't poke the bear.

It was an overcast weekend afternoon, during our summer vacation. My parents were grocery shopping and figured that since my brother was 16, I was fifteen and my sister was 12, the three of us had enough combined maturity to leave alone for the length of time it takes to grocery shop for a family of five.

Haha suckers.

You know what happens when the responsible adults leave a 16-year-old boy alone with the lone television set, a SEGA system, a video game addiction and a pathological need to drive his younger sisters insane?

Nothing good, I can assure you.

So there he was, Stretch, the over-grown boy who thought that because he towered over every living thing in sight,  he could hog the TV.

And there I was, the much shorter yet way bossier younger sister who refused to be bullied.

My sister was the only intelligent child around. She hid in her bedroom to avoid the bloodshed.

It all went down something like this.

"Stretch, can you get off the tv now? You've been playing video games all morning and I want to watch a movie."

"No. Go away."

"No, you go away. I want to watch tv."

He ignores me as the sounds of an annoying 1990's video game taunt me in the background.

"Stretch. Get. Off. The. Television. Please."

Pew pew! Pop! Bam! Cutesy music and complete silence from my suddenly deaf big brother.

So I did the only thing I dared to do. I stood in front of him, blocking his view of the television.

"Stretch. I WANT TO WATCH TEEVEE NOOOOW."

My brother paused the game, looked up and growled in a low voice, "Tanis, you'd better move. Now."

The fifteen year old me was not so different from the modern day me, in that I don't respond well to being told what to do. Also, the fifteen year old me was way dumber than I currently am now.

"No. GET OFF THE DAMN GAME STRETCH OR I'M TELLING MOM."

"I'm warning you Tanis, MOVE." His voice was deadly serious.

So I moved.

I dove for the console box and tried to turn the entire thing off. My downfall was (besides being dumber than a stump and more stubborn) I miscalculated how quick my brother's reflexes were.

Quicker than a cat on a hot tin roof, darn it.

I can't remember with crystal clarity what exactly happened next but I know I did a lot of screeching at high volume in his face, he told me to back off, and I told him where he could stick his head.

The next thing I knew, a river of red ran out my nostrils and I was running out the door of our house, my brother hot on my heels. I was yelling for help and he was screaming he was going to pummel me.

Lucky for me, our parents happened to arrive home JUST AT THAT MOMENT. The rest is, as they say, history. But I never poked that bear again.

***

Fast forward 21 years.

***

We have one television in our house. One. It's located in our family room and it's communal property.

Yesterday, as I was online, reading blogs and such, I heard, "Fric, stop it."

Fric replied to her younger brother in a sing song voice, "What? I'm not doing anything!"

"Fric! Stop it!" Frac barked again.

Being the dutiful mother I am, I asked what was going on. Suddenly all traces of annoyance was gone from both of them as they answered, "Nothing! Just playing video games."

"Well stop fighting or I'm shutting it off."

"Yes Mom."

The peace lasted for about, oh, two seconds. They were playing split screen, a first person shooting game and somebody was deliberately shooting her brother. Even though they were on the same team.

I have no idea where that girl child of mine gets it. I swear.

My boy child was at his wits end. Because apparently, gaming online is a serious business when your mom only lets you play for an hour on a sunny day. Who wants to waste it constantly getting blown up by your big sister?

Before I knew it, there was more shouting, more arguing and I was suddenly having flash backs of my brother's fist meeting the tip of my nose.

Someone was poking the damn bear.

"That's it, you two. Stand up. Get over here," I shouted over top of their yelling and scowled at them with my meanest mommy face ever.

"I've had enough of this. If you want to act like children, I'll treat you like kids," I threatened. They glowered at me and then at each other.

The problem with disciplining is you need to have a plan of action. I didn't actually have any plan in mind, short of kicking them outside. But I figured with my luck, they'd just take it outside and continue their war there. I needed something and I needed it right now before any more bears were poked.

So I made an impromptu decision and I did what I used to do when they fought when they were little. When they actually were kids, not these grown up wannabes, straddling the line of adulthood.

I made them hug it out.

And I documented it.

Because they are still kids. But they won't be for much longer. And darn if some Sunday morning I'm not going to be wishing the two of them were squabbling over video games in my living room once more.

Which brings us here. A little photographic series I like to call the Evolution of a Hug. (Also known as DONT POKE THE BEAR.)

First off we have smugness and annoyance. I can barely tolerate the waves of "I want to rip off your limbs and beat you with them" that one of them is projecting. I choose to ignore said waves and pretend everything is sunshine and unicorn farts.

Unfortunately, the older sibling is unable to avoid said waves of anger and responds back by very maturely calling her younger brother a jerk. If this happens with your children the best thing to do is to fine them a dollar for cussing and remind them that Momma ain't messing around. Be sure to use your sweetest voice though. It confuses the honey badgers and puts them on high alert.

And we have contact. Hug therapy begins. Vomiting is threatened but no actual gagging occurs.

A little squeezing is to be expected. The oversized irritated sibling may want to assert his dominance by pretending he's a python and the annoying older sibling may want to fake actual innocence. Do not interfere. It's all part of the process. Just remind them, very sweetly, you have all damn day and you don't mind waiting until they can play nice.

Eventually, I promise, they'll crack. And they'll actually hug one another nicely and tell each other they love one another while making promises that they'll stop trying to cyber kill one another. 

Hug therapy. Every gamer needs it occasionally. Bears do too.

Bra Shopping and Boy Trolling

I don't know how it happened but somehow I found myself agreeing to take my teenaged daughter and her same-aged cousin shopping.

Bra shopping.

Ya.

If that wasn't bad enough, I promised I'd take them to the largest shopping mall in North America, currently the 12th biggest mall in the world. (According to Wikipedia. And we all know Wiki never lies.)

Because bra shopping in the mecca of North American consumerist excess is the funnest idea EVER!

Add in two teenaged girls, my bad back, and all the punk arsed boys making goo-goo eyes at my gals and today is shaping up to be a fantastic day.

Her version of Blue Steel.

The good news is, when I tear my hair out in frustration with the girls (and you know I will) there will be places I can go to immediately buy new hair. That's the charm of West Edmonton Mall. I can buy fresh sushi from the fish market in China Town and walk across the mall to find new hair. Synthetic, horse and human!

Hair for everyone! Baldness is not an option. Unless of course you want it to be.

I don't really have a point to this post. I'm just trying to work through the horrifying realization that my niece is going to be here any minute, I'm still sitting here in my bathrobe, and I can't get past the memory of what I did at the Big Mall of Consumerism when I was 16 years old.

I trolled for boys.

Since 16 year old girls (and almost 16 year old girls) haven't changed much in the 20 years since I was that age this basically means I am taking to hormonal moody teen girls to buy bras in between sessions of boy trolling.

Do I acknowledge that I know they're trolling for hot dudes? Or do I turn a blind eye?

I am completely over-thinking this entire adventure which only proves one thing: I've officially hit middle age and I've morphed into a dork.

Whatever.

As the girls troll for dudes I'll rock my inner dork while looking for chastity belts amongst the bras. Because I may be a dork but I'm dork accompanying two hormonal teen girls trolling for boys.

This dork ain't stupid.

Double Dork Power