Saturday, 26 February 2011

the times, they are a'changin'

Well, shit.

This is going to take a little backstory.  Bear with me. Late this fall, the Province was warned that money was going to be tight this year, and that education funding (Oh! The short-sightedness of this makes me clench my fists and see all shades of red*) would be cut. The entire province started seething and churning and making hurried, worried plans about where the cuts could make a difference and yet not impact our students.

This was a very big deal. Numbers like 15-22% funding cuts for the school boards were bandied about. Public meetings were held where the school board laid out their doomsday predictions (If we lose that much funding, there will be NO AIDES WHATSOEVER! There will be NO READING RECOVERY! Any special trips that require the school to have extra busing are FINITO! The libraries will have ZIP ZILCH NADA NEW MONEY FOR BOOKS!, etc.)

There were hot accusations and yelling from both sides. It's been awful.

February 8th, provincial numbers came out. With cost pressures and having to cover raises (I really need to stop rolling my eyes about this one) my area of Nova Scotia is one of the hardest hit, with an anticipated cut of 3.97%, or 2.7 million dollars next year. (Link to news release)

During the Great 22%! We're All Burning Down! Budget Exercise, specific statements were asked to the school board by members of the public. Statements about schools. Closing schools. The public was assured that the classroom would be protected.

Guess what happened this week? ELEVEN schools have been named for review.
Including my children's school. AGAIN.

We're fighting it, of course. It makes less sense now than it did the last time the school was up for review.

Fighting for our village school, tooth and nail.


*Scene, ten years in the future:

Morris: At least Nova Scotia has a balanced budget, right, Cletus?
Cletus: Uh? (He has no idea what a budget IS) Whut?

Saturday, 19 February 2011

well

I dripped and hacked my way through work Friday. I was dragging tail. Of course, since I wasn't moving quickly enough, a lousy bunch of germs hitched a ride....and now I sound like I'm smoking again.

I'll try not to sneeze on the screen.

I got home from work, threw on my moose pants (flannel, decorated with mooses and loons and polar bears and elk and trees. I do look a TREAT in these. I couldn't find my orange tiger-striped socks, but the fuzzy pink and white ones were calling my name.)

B KNOWS I'm sick when I look like a bag lady.

So last night, Rosey began to sniffle too. We were sick together, taking up space on the couch, passing back and forth the box of kleenex, looking glazed and uncomfy. I already knew I was spending the night on the couch (to spend the night in the marital bed would risk infecting B and bringing down the last healthy parent.) and so I'd brought down my quilt, a few pillows, etc. I was checking in on Facebook and noticed that Rosey....wasn't talking anymore. Yep.

Rosey was sacked out in the middle of our couch.

I half-heartedly tried to wake her up, but she was sick, and tired, and she needed sleep too.

So last night I.....slept in the recliner. It wasn't the best sleep ever. I was assailed by a sense of deja vu, and I realized that the last time I slept in the living room chair, Rosey herself had been a baby, sleeping on me in the wavering blue light of yet another Law and Order episode.

It felt good.


Well, as good as it could with my blubbering snot all over the place.

'Scuse me while I go get another mug of something hot, will you?

Sunday, 13 February 2011

Eliot was wrong

April is not the cruelest month.  February is.

 A year ago, on Valentine's Day, my mother died. This year, on Groundhog Day, my father told me that my stepmother had succumbed to cancer.

We're still reeling.

Pat married into our family almost twenty years ago. I did not like her at first - was determined, actually, to find something terrible and deal-breaking about this woman who was marrying my father.  (I may be a bit of a Daddy's girl. Or a lot. But still, I was eighteen, and a hot mess of hormones and craziness.) I don't remember where we were when I first met her, only that she was kind, and smart, and not interested in being my mother at all. Peaceful is a good word - Pat brought peace wherever she went.

My brother and I soon stopped thinking of her as 'that woman' and began thinking of her as Pat.

Mum (for she became that, too) was a listener. She would set something up so she could be doing something (ironing, weaving, gardening, petting a cat or two) and listen, really listen and offer comments and sooner or later you'd realize that not only did you feel better, you'd figured out what you were going to do.

Mum believed if you were surrounded by beautiful things, beautiful parts of you came out. The house she and my father lived in is gorgeous, surrounded by flowers, filled with interesting and rare objects. She could tell you the history of every little thing in that house. She made it a home.

She made people happy just by being there, and we will remember her forever.





Also, I think it might be prudent for my family to stop celebrating holidays once and for all.
 

Wednesday, 9 February 2011

sybil

Ugh, I need to pay more attention to my blog! I missed my own blogiversary!

I've been blogging SIX YEARS.

Six years is a looong time in electronic years. A loong time.

Speaking of both six years and a long time, a certain girl is nearing the teenage years. I mean, it's been fun, it's been real, it's been all that and more, but.....wait......really?........

Oh, right. It's just her attitude that's pretending to be sixteen. The rest of her just fell in with the stomping and posturing.

Now, up until about a week ago I'd swear she was six.

But....lately....when she's asked to do something or told to go to bed or darn near anything, her head spins, she swings her body around and utters that horrid word "Whatever."

And then she rolls her eyes. And stomps.

I can't figure out where this is coming from. School? Her friends? iCarly? 

And just when I get my breath back from the sudden-death-puberty strike and open my mouth to address this inappropriate and egregious behavior, she'll....giggle. Or grab up her crayons and draw. Or start telling me about the (epic) story of what all her Barbies are doing.

And suddenly, she's six again.

Oh, it's gonna be fun being your Mama, Miss Rosey.  I think.

Sunday, 6 February 2011

she doubles as an alarm clock too

Wow, so much to tell you! I went to an Ice Wine festival with some very funny ladies and had an amazing time, and I can't wait to tell you, but right now I'm getting The Look:
Guess it's time for bed. Tomorrow, then!