(I Had a Fabulous, Witty Title but I Forgot It)

I hate my bad memory. I try and make up for it with emails to myself & post-its everywhere. My memory is so bad sometimes that I don't recognize my own reminder notes. I noticed an email at home with the subject "BRING BACK CORDS". My first thought: "motherfucker, who the hell is sending me some internet petition to restore corduroy pants to fashion A-lists?" Looking further, it was I, reminding myself to return the recharger cords for my phone & headset to the office. I had brought them home to be able to use them during my holidays.

If recalling something bugs me, it really bugs me until I remember it. I recall phoning my dear husband and screaming "HE'S OUR DENTIST!!" I'm sure he would have said "who IS this?" if not for call display. Even then...

We had seen a very familiar man completely out of context and it tortured me all day. I was quite ashamed as I got to the point of picturing this man in various forms of garb "suit & tie?" No "jeans & T?" No "safety vest & hardhat?" No.

I was starting to question my motivation for this avenue of thought (it's possible that some may consider the gentleman to be hottie hot hot perhaps somewhat attractive) except that I said to myself "it's not like I've imagined him in a Speedo" except – dammit, there it is. Sorry self.

I made it to "scrubs?" (don't ask why, I don't remember) when, wait a minute, there's something there… The "out of context" was at the funeral of the parent of a friend. A friend who used to work for that dentist. Her recommendation was how we had hooked up with him.

Do you have any tips for um... what was I talking about again?

Remembrance

His name was Charles Raymond Bradley and he was a Petty Officer with the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was my Grandmother's baby brother and the youngest in the family. I don't know exactly how old he was, because even though I had the presence of mind to pay some attention when my Grandmother spoke, I did NOT have the presence of mind to write these things down. He looks pretty young here.

He was a navigator on a bomber, and part of a fairly successful team – at least according to my only (possibly somewhat biased) source. My Grandmother told me frequently how after every successful mission, the crew each got an egg for breakfast. This was a big deal, as eggs were a rare commodity at the front. Reserved for the elite. Once you had twenty-five eggs, your tour was done. He had eaten twenty-one eggs.

When he was shot down over Germany, my Grandmother said that it ripped a hole in my Great-Grandmother's heart. She became embittered and angry at them for taking her baby. I wouldn't be so sure she even knew with whom she was angry.

I can't relate to the horrors of war. My heart lets me dabble at the edge of what it may be like to let your baby go off to an uncertain future, with odds further against them than you care to fathom. For obvious reasons, it doesn't let me more than dabble. More importantly, the only thing of which I am certain is that it would be nothing like one could ever imagine. Never mind the visit.

It's BECAUSE I can't relate that I am so grateful. I have not had to consider the possibility of such a hole ripped into me for the greater good.

I am so deeply indebted to the men and women who have served and continue to serve to protect my privileges as such a comparatively spoiled princess. Is there really any more that I can say than: Thank you?

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Max and I went yesterday to the Remembrance Day ceremony at the kids' school. The Principal makes a very sincere effort to beat the kids over the head with this. I believe it's pretty much provincial curriculum to not let this solemn day pass by un-noted, but I get the impression our Principal would not have to be asked. I was slightly disappointed at the parent turnout to this (what I think is an) important occasion, but noted that it was not specifically sent out as an invitation. I was extremely impressed at the children who sat silent and mostly (amazingly) still for a very long time. There are glimmers of hope.

Sweet and Salty

The girls stayed up way too late last night to watch a movie on TV because "IT'S THE WEEKEND!" and it's what we do on weekends, apparently.

So the crazy late, late movie they watched was actually "Cheaper by the Dozen 2 - we left the movie making machine on!" Stewie actually tried to stay up too, but fell asleep by about 9:30.

When it was over, despite it being ELEVEN o'clock, I still had to grab their scrawny little arms and twist them beyond what is reasonable force to convince them that maybe they should be going to bed, because "it's the weekend" and "OMG! It's Prank Patrol! We HAVE to watch that".

I tucked them in separately, in their separate rooms on separate floors. And separately, as they were settling, they both paused and gave me the saddest look I had ever seen from them and told me of this really sad commercial they had seen. (They're supposed to mute the commercials, but I go hoarse yelling over to the TV area "why am I hearing that?")

And then they started CRYING! Each of them.

I thought: "damn - I forgot that they have a whole different set of commercials on later, even on YTV". I assumed we were going into World Vision territory, but no. The offender was thus:



Of course, my poor dears, I hugged them and comforted them at the same time as I was giggling at them for being so sensitive. Then I watched it myself and suddenly found that there was a bit of something in my eye.

Here's notice, Sidekicks: any chance you had of ever coming into this home are summarily ELIMINATED when you make my girls cry! (disclaimer: it was slim to none prior)(clarification: and it's NOT because there was something in MY eye).