"Batching-it" - OT
Posted by Carl on December 1, 2006
Ahhhhhh….. Usually once a year, my darling wife will take the kids down to see her family in Toronto - they took the train this morning at 6 a.m. Now, we normally go down as a family one or two weekends a year, but I am “persona non grata” with her mom, so it’s good that I’m not always there.
My wife and I met in September of 1989 at Carleton University - she was seeing someone else at the time. We hung out together through political science and for some crazy reason started dating in September of 1992. We got engaged two weeks later and the rest is history. Doris’ mother was not thrilled and summarily disowned her, and by extension, me. Never one to quit (while she was ahead, in my opinion), my wife kept in touch with her mother. We’d show up in Toronto, only to have the door slammed in our face - literally. Doris would smile, mischieviously, and then ring the doorbell again. Slam. Ring. Slam. Ring. The door would open and her mother would walk away, muttering in Chinese about her “good for nothing” daughter. We redeemed ourselves, somewhat, by producing a boy for our first child in 1997. In Chinese culture, boys are king.
Every son has a memory of the day he figuratively “passed” his father - the first time he outran him, beat him in an armwrestle, etc. For me, it was while I was struggling with a calculus problem in high school. The look of bewilderment on Dad’s face said it all: for the first time, I was capable of doing something he was not. I was 17. Zak passed me when he was 4 - Doris was working late and I was giving Zak a bath. The phone rang. “Dola?” A chill ran down my spine. It was her mother. “She’s not here, how are you doing Ma?” Pause. “The boy”. This wasn’t a request; she couldn’t pronounce Zechariah and she obviously thought I was too stupid to know who she meant if she used his Chinese name. She wanted to talk to “the boy” so I handed him the phone as he splashed happily in the tub. “Who is it?”, he asked. “It’s your po-po.” I answered, the phone still outstretched. “I don’t want to talk to her.” I panicked. “You have to talk to her man! I can’t talk to her!” My son can speak Toisan (his grandmother’s particular Chinese dialect), I can’t. He glared at me the entire ten minutes he was on the phone with her. I smiled at him sheepishly, with the same helpless expression my Dad had when I couldn’t figure out integrals.
Okay - so now we’re wayyyyy OT. But, I’m batching it this weekend, which means three things:
1) Sleep
2) Catching up on movies
3) Sleep.
(And a little blogging.)
Have a great weekend, and don’t forget to sign up for the contest!
