As my husband and I prepare for a family trip to Prince Edward Island tomorrow, my father offers to lend us his cooler. I put my daughter to bed and my husband and Dad head out to the garage. A few minutes later, I hear muffled banging noises, as though something is hitting the side of the house. My mother and I share an expression of puzzlement.
"Actually, it sounds like it's coming from inside the wall," I say.
My daughter, whose bedroom is right by the wall in question, starts wailing. I go outside to check out the source of the racket. My father has a ladder leaning into the garret, and he is handing down the cooler, lawn chairs and a beach mat to my husband.
"The attic is right by Baby's room!" I hiss. "You're keeping her awake!"
I go upstairs and take my daughter in my arms. She gives me a grateful hug, then, with under lip curled in a pout, looks to the closet, where a muffled banging has just ceased.
"There are no monsters in the closet," I soothe.
My daughter is now sleeping, and I find myself thinking: parents usually make every effort to keep monsters out of the closet, and here we are putting them in. What other instances of lack of foresight are we guilty of?
There are of course the classic cases of putting the wine bottle not enough out of her reach, and taking it away just in time to avoid catastrophic consequences; or putting her in her first miniature toddler car ride and asking the fraught-with-dire-repurcussions question: "What's that button for?" and watching your child whimper in panic as the vehicle begins to make weird rocking motions.
But I would have to say that my crowning moment of lack of foresight was the time I took my two-month old baby on her first airplane ride to visit her new family in New Brunswick. I hadn't wanted to be "encumbered" with a stroller, so I left it with my husband just before crossing the security checkpoint. There I was, with my very small baby in my arms, attempting to take off my jacket, shoes, bag, etc., all the while making sure I didn't drop her. I passed the metal detector, and thought everything would be a breeze from then on. But have you ever tried putting on a jacket, bag and shoes while carrying a baby? Not possible. Finally I had to resort to asking one of the security guards to hold my child for me while I put my things on. From that time, I take my stroller with me every time I leave the house.
But then, there are instances where fate is dead set against you. When I came back from Rome, my stroller apparently decided to take a break in Paris after weeks of rattling over cobblestone streets. It was nowhere to be found as I exited the plane; I had to walk through a mile of Charles de Gaulle airport with my 25-lb daughter in my arms, and quickly, to make our connecting flight. The stroller was returned to me a few days later, well rested and in a state of perfect nonchalance.
Monday 20 June 2011
Wednesday 1 June 2011
Hot Summer (or, The Day My House Began Falling To Pieces)
June 1st. I love June. At the start of June I look forward to the coming summer. There is a promise of warmer days whispered in the wind.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
Or, on this particular June 1st, a veritable, 30 degrees plus humidex, full blazing sun, scorcher of a day, complete with a wind that could blow your house down, I am actually looking forward to cooler days.
But to begin at the beginning. Let's go back to the last week of May. The week I came home from Rome, looking forward to a small reprieve from the hot Italian sun. The week, incidentally, when summer officially came to Montreal. In full force.
The first thing my husband and I noticed upon our return home is that the upstairs air-conditioner doesn't work. "Oh well," I shrugged. "I'm not a big fan of air-conditioning anyway."
Ten days, fifteen degrees later and no company is willing to even come look at our air-conditioner, claiming it "does not work with the particular brand of our unit." Well, bugger. We open our windows (which in fact provides an interesting sequel to this story, if you will kindly read on), turn on the air-conditioner downstairs full blast, but to no avail; the thermostats upstairs stubbornly indicate such horrible temperatures as 28.5 celcius. Even during the night, the readings on the thermostats hardly budge.
What's wrong with this house?? I feel like yelling. How can it be hotter inside than it is outside? But I already know the answer to that. We have chosen to live in a tall, skinny house that is sitting atop a hill on what most likely used to be an open field, with nothing to offer shelter from the blazing sun but a tiny twig someone planted on the front lawn ten years ago and that has since grown about half-an-inch per year. We are completely exposed.
Last year, we discovered with not a small amount of horror that we had set up our baby room in what, it turns out, is the hottest room in the house. We did everything we could to cool down that room come summer, including putting a roll-down blind in addition to the aluminum blinds that were already there, and even duct-taping some sun-deflecting material to the pane. It helped, but only a little. Finally we realized we would have to leave the a/c on full-time. At least it worked then.
Sick of that system, however, we decided to switch the baby's room with the computer room last winter. It was a project that took a couple of days. But it did make a difference. About 1 or 2 degrees' difference.
Last night, finding it impossible to sleep upstairs, we moved the entire family to the basement. We slept on the futon, and our baby slept in her play-pen (converted into a bed).
So now we have indefinitely vacated the upstairs part of our home (which I have just now decided to dub: The Kalahari), using it only to shower and change clothes.
But, when faced with temporary abandonment of its upper floor, instead of graciously accepting its shortcomings and patiently awaiting our eventual return, the house opted for revenge.
It is a very hot, but also very windy day today. This morning, I decided it would be nice to open the windows a bit, and let in some fresh air. My baby was napping in the basement and I was reading downstairs when suddenly I heard a very loud Bang! I ran upstairs, and upon looking in the bathroom I noticed that the window had been blown open to its beyond-fullest potential, and had slammed into the wall. I climbed into the tub, removed the screen and tried to pull the window closed. But the house was putting up a good fight. The rusty hinges had bent and snapped, and the window looked like it was ready to fly off on its own and explore new lands and sights, possibly considering a close neighbor's lawn as its first stop, or worse, a neighbor's head.
If this window flies away and lands on someone's head, or crashes through someone else's window, I will surely be sued, or charged with murder, or something, I thought as I held onto the window, fighting against a wind that appeared to see the potential for entertainment in this situation and seemed determined to see the worst possible damage done.
Right then I saw my next-door neighbor arrive home and get out of his van. Firmly gripping my window, I leaned outside and called out his name. He looked straight in front of him, then up. "My window's going to fly away! Help!!" I yelled in panic.
A minute later he was upstairs in my bathroom, one foot out on the roof, the other in my bathtub, hanging on to the window for dear life, yelling to his son who had made his appearance outside to fetch his friend next door, quickly!
"What are you doing up there, Dad?" his son yelled.
"I'm having a bath! Now hurry up!"
About fifteen minutes later, my neighbour is still in my bathtub, and the other on the roof. The two of them finally manage to force the window to relent and close. Only partly, though. The top half is secured, but the bottom half has proven impossible to fit back into the frame. The wind whistles shrilly through that bottom crack now, and when I close my eyes, I imagine I'm sailing a small, creaky boat on a rough sea.
As soon as the window was sufficiently closed and all possibility of a disaster had been averted, I ran out back to fetch the ladder. Only, when I put it against the house, it would not reach all the way to the roof. The neighbour had to run to his house to get his ladder, while the other guy sat on my roof below my bathroom window, casually looking around as though he were admiring the view, his wife staring up at him from my driveway.
After he managed to climb off my room, I thanked my neighbours, promised them a case of beer, and went back inside. My baby was still sound asleep in her bed in the cool basement.
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