pink for peace

I wrote about this last year here
The second Thursday of the school year in Nova Scotia is known provincially as Stand Up Against Bullying Day. This began in 2007, when a freshman in an Annapolis Valley High School was bullied by  seniors for wearing a pink shirt on the first day of school. Two other seniors took note and decided enough was enough. Pooling their money, they bought fifty cheap pink shirts at a discount store and emailed everyone in the school they could think of, asking them to wear one of the shirts the next day. They figured that they could get twenty to thirty people to wear the shirts, but that twenty was enough to show that they were taking a stand.
The next day, they handed out the shirts - and were astonished to see over 400 other pink shirts worn at their school. There were pink accessories, pink jackets, pink sneakers - even a few pink basketballs on the gym floor that day, all worn to stop bullying.

The idea attracted attention, and by the end of that month, the two teens who started the movement were invited to Province House to watch the Premier sign a proclamation making the second Thursday of the school year officially Stand Up Against Bullying Day.
Last year there were patches. This year the Pink Shirt movement is stronger than before - in all age levels of schools and universities. School buses in Nova Scotia today are over-run with pink -
because our kids are tired of bullying, and because two other kids thought they should take a stand.
photo by novanewsnow.com
This is an original post to Canada Moms Blog. Jessica sent her kids to school today wearing pink and hopes they grow up with empathy for others and fairness as their leads.

an american girl in canada

I got pregnant four months after I moved to Canada.
Somehow, through all the rigamarole of applying for permanent residency and applying for a work permit and tearful phone calls from relatives who were convinced I'd lost my mind and gone to the North Pole (Students in the United States are NOT taught as much geography as Canadian children are - the entirety of Canada is left as 'our friendly neighbor to the north' ) and trying to fit into an area with a much smaller-town feel, the stars aligned and the heavens sang (or, come to think of it, could have been all that newlywed sex) and I started feeling....off.
I held off going to the doctor until I was convinced I was dying. We were fumbling with bills and finding our way as a new couple - why would I put the added stress of co-pays and office fees onto our plate? Surely this would go away. Conditioned from years of having to drop thirty dollars every time I even set foot into a doctor's office, I was panicked by the idea of having a chronic illness far from home. The tests that would have to be run would bury us. And what would happen if whatever-this-was was classified as an existing condition?  I knew my husband loved me - but what if this was something ....big?
And how in hell were we going to pay for this? It was enough to make an American girl heave.
When I finally confessed that I was scared out of my mind that I was going to bankrupt us and force us to live in the streets, Jamie was less than comforting. He was completely uncomprehending.

You see, in Canada, that doesn't happen. People don't lose their houses trying to pay for their health care or take out second mortgages for unexpected illnesses. People don't get turned away from emergency rooms because they don't have insurance. There are no horror stories of people with ruptured disks (a horrible, debilitating injury) being sent home without getting help. That doesn't happen here.
Canada's health care system is based upon a single-payer system. (This differs from the 'socialist medicine' label often slapped on it.) The government doesn't decide what treatment you're getting or have any say in what tests or medications you need - your doctor does. The provincial government pays for it .
That's their only role in your health care. They don't choose who gets what, they don't say yay or nay.  Your doctor (or hospital) bills one single payer, so there isn't any waiting to find out if you have insurance approval, no waiting for reimbursement. There just isn't. This means that the Canadian health system costs much less than the States model - running one company to pay out is much more cost-effective than dozens of companies, all with their own checks, balances, and wait times for reimbursement.(And executive salaries, but that's another post...)
I'm not saying Canada's health care system is perfect. It's not. But it's a damn sight better than worrying that having an illness or injury - or bringing a baby into the world, which is what I did, a few months later -  is going to bankrupt your family or mean years of bills and worry.
Some very good articles: Denver Post  Diemer.ca  Campaign For America's Future


Jessica moved from the United States in 2000. She blogs at daysgoby and is grateful every day to live in Canada, where she can get medical treatment whenever she needs it without having to choose between having food in the house and seeing a doctor.
Photo by vtgard

cheesed

Like most people who read blogs, I have a sizable blogroll. Certain themes have trended in through time - I had a lot of baby blogs when my daughter was a little, and when I went to work at the local hospital, blogs written by doctors, nurses and paramedics stacked up in number.
There are always blogs to follow about almost any profession, hobby, craft, whim. Even things you never thought you'd be interested in. But we're eating at home a LOT more these days, and in between the 100 mile diet and trying to show my children that with a little ingenuity, we can do almost anything, I've found myself reading all sorts of new and incredible stuff - and then trying it out.
For example, I adore cheese. Even the stinky stuff most people won't touch. Did you know you can make a lot of cheeses in your kitchen? Seriously. Like ricotta. Known around here as the glurp-glunch-YUMMY lasagna cheese. Or paneer, an incredibly basic but delicious Indian cheese that squeaks between your teeth if fried lightly in ghee. Even semi-hard and hard cheeses can be made at home.

Cheese curds - the main ingredient in poutine - is even possible (and delicious!) in your kitchen. (Imagine! Making your own poutine!)
Mozzerella! The pizza and string cheese champion!
Now, armed with a few recipes, some milk and a little time in the kitchen, I can make cheese. My kids think I'm a superstar and I'm saving money. It's a win all around. Besides, I like appearing out of nowhere lke Houdini...with pizza! Pizza topped with fresh home-made cheese!
Now if I could just manage to beat the deer back from eating all my fresh tomatoes and basil....
(sigh) Back to the blogs, I guess....
Hmm. How to get the deer to leave your garden alone. Must bookmark that....
This is an original Canadian Moms Blog post. Jessica blogs at daysgoby and tries not to drool on her keyboard while reading recipes.
photo by PirateAlice

how to put in a pool (an ongoing story)

1) First, set the scene. Occasionally whine and moan to your husband how you miss the Great Lakes, how you're dying to swim, how you dream of cool, clear water...Ignore him when he (mildly) mentions that hello? You live near an ocean and there's a river in your front yard. Sigh heavily and mournfully when pools come on the television. (This is especially useful if you watch a lot of CSI: Miami.)
2) Next, pray for a heatwave.
3) When your husband finally mentions that Store X has a sale on pools and maybe you want to come check it out? Don't jump up and down and don't run and get your paperwork that clearly shows that Store Z has a better price or flash your handful of recommendations of brands and sizes. Now is not yet the time.
4) Be delighted. Even when his idea of a pool is three sizes smaller than yours. Remember, first ideas are adjustable, and you have all those recs and facts and figures to back yours up with.

5) Buy pool. Drag pool home. Be glad you brought the big car and the strong husband - because baby, those things are heavy.
6) Pick out spot on lawn that looks level. Watch DVD of pool installation video several times until you notice you're humming the kicky little music under your breath. Go outside, full of vim and vigor (and that kicky little song.) and unfold the pool. Begin filling the pool. Curse a few times, teaching the impressionable children near you new words that you'll regret later.
7) Really curse a few minutes later, when it becomes apparent that the level spot in the yard? Wasn't level, damn it. Open stopcocks and empty pool.
The next day:
8) Move pool. Measure out sixteen foot circle and spray paint it. Stand in middle of circle and wonder what exactly the hell you thought you were doing. Think sad thoughts about your lawn while husband gathers shovels, turf cutters, a level, string, several screwdrivers and mutters about using the roto-tiller. Wonder to yourself how on earth one levels a lawn, and begin to suspect you won't like the answer.
9) In a few hours, when all the turf has been cut out of the circle, know you hate the answer. Stare at the brown hole of doom, and weep bitter tears. Wonder where on earth you're supposed to put the grass that's been moved.
Begin to believe this was a mistake.
10) After six hours of shoveling, raking, attempting to level, and hissing through your teeth 'No, you can't play with the shovel right now' to your terminally bored offspring, figure THE HELL WITH THIS and go inside. Where you'll discover you look like you've been rolling in mud and your sun allergy has come out full force. Spend night itching and trying not to scratch.
The next day:
11) After much coffee and glasses of mango-papaya-orange juice (because isn't that what they drink on CSI: Miami?) look outside at the circle and discover it is by no means level. Send husband to work on it, because you will absolutely break down if forced to go out there again.
12) Wait for load of sand to come. And wait. Aaaaand....wait.
Wonder if you'll ever enjoy this pool so much you'll forget all this. Nah. This is going to be rattling around in your head for a long time.
Future steps: Spread sand in hole, level sand, set up pool (again), have fire truck come over and fill pool. You can guess which one my kids are looking forward to.
This is an original Canada Moms Blog post. Jessica is the proud owner of a 16 foot dustbowl in her yard. She blogs at daysgoby when not pestering her forgiving husband and hoping someday to have a pool that she can actually swim in.

the foreigner in the fridge

I was reading an article about saving money on groceries, idly thinking 'Well, I do that', and 'Holy crap do Canadians get fleeced on coupons' - because really, Canucks, you do - and 'I'm amazed my slow cooker isn't worn out yet' and clicked away, disgruntled.
Some of the suggestions are pretty basic, after all.
My family is trying to be as local as we can be. We're kind of proud of it, actually...haunting the local farm markets for produce and goods, doing our best to buy locally. We're even experimenting with putting in (well, experimenting again) a garden.
Some things we fudge on, like coffee (I'm fine with that, I am, because mornings are not fun when I don't get my coffee) and no one seems to be distilling gasoline nearby, but we make choices like early apples over the-peaches-from-the-United-States, and ketchup made in the Maritimes.

Our pantry staples are local. Sugar refined in Nova Scotia, flour from Newfoundland. Pickles made in a neighbor's kitchen. Sauces and dried fruit and local cheeses. Meat from the butcher. Maple syrup from Labrador.
It takes time to peruse labels, to try to buy things produced nearby. I thought I was doing a good job.
Which is why I nearly spit coffee all over the counter this morning when I realized the molasses was a wolf in sheep's clothing. Oh, sure, the label was that of a local company. The label was a company in New Brunswick, the molasses the stuff of my husband's memories growing-up. Pancake breakfasts, dumplings and 'lassie on Sunday nights. You know, the usual brand. Of course this was a local product.
Right? Well, no.
The molasses itself was purified and packaged in New Brunswick. But came from Guatemala.
Guatemala. Not exactly the 100-miles-diet-friendly item I'd been assuming it was.
Tomorrow I'll start hunting out a new molasses - or equivalent. But I dassn't tell Bear.
He's already grumpy about the dearth of peach cobbler.

This is an original Canada Moms Blog post. Jessica blogs at daysgoby and tries her hand at poetry in the still white room.  Photo by Sbocaj.

telling them poppa died

A few weeks ago, I read When Grandparents Are Sick (a fabulous post by Mary on DC Metro Moms) and bookmarked it, thinking I certainly understood. After all, my soldiering-on-but-beginning-to-fail Father-In-Law was reaching the point where...well, the point where it looked like things were going to change for him.
And then things did change. He died.
Last week was a kaleidoscope of emotions and things to do - going through grief with your spouse is hard enough, but explaining death to seven and four year olds? Not great, either. And tricky. We talked a lot about how people can be so broken that even doctors can't fix them, and how Poppa had been sick for so long that things like walking and breathing were very difficult.

My son was shattered. Shattered. He'd always been close with his Poppa, and since we've lost a few family pets, understood the finality of death. But my daughter had no clue.
And since I've been spotty on her religious education, she wasn't as comforted by the 'God took Poppa to Heaven to live with him' as her brother was. We were astonished when she shook back her shoulders and wailed that we were so mean, that why wouldn't we let Poppa come back? and Poppa can't live with God, Poppa has a house here!
Clearly, we needed advice. I sent out a call for help over Twitter, but received the best advice from the funeral directer - a nice handful of pamphlets and a really spectacular child's workbook called Bye Bye...I Love You - with prompts and spaces for the kids to fill in their special memories.
We learned: NEVER to say that Poppa had gone away (or he's gone, as both my husband and I naturally say in conversation) because my four year old thought that gone away meant coming back, that my son needed to know why for almost everything, that their attention spans and grief levels were better if we talked for a few moments then let them run off and do something else for awhile. That snuggling and saying nothing was sometimes better than rehashing the whole thing again - but sometimes talking was the better choice.
We learned if we talked them through each ceremony step by step they would be fine. This was as blunt as saying 'Poppa's body will be in the coffin. It will be open halfway. You will be able to see him  People will go up to it and say goodbye. You don't have to go up if you don't want to, but your Dad or I will go with you if you want. A lot of people are going to cry. Some people will tell you stories about Poppa. A lot of people are going to pat you on the head or shake your hand. If you get tired, come find me and I will take you away.'
I wavered and wavered on if they would be helped or hurt by going to the funeral. After even the four year old was reassured during the visitation by seeing her grandfather in his coffin, we decided to let them both attend. Again, I went through the ritual step-by-step. 'Poppa's body will be there in the coffin, but it will be closed. There will be prayers, and people will stand up and say what a good man your grandfather was. There will be songs played, and then we'll get in the car and drive behind the hearse to the cemetery, where we will stand in front of the box Poppa's body is in. There will be a few more prayers, and then people will walk in front of us and say how much they loved your grandfather and how much they'll miss him. People will want to shake your hand or hug you. If you are sad or don't want to do that, come to me. After we leave, the box will be lowered into the ground.'
They did well at the funeral. While I am by no means saying that their grief is over, I'm very proud of how well they absorbed what their father and I told them, and I'm so glad I had those pamphlets from the funeral home.
We are big believers in the idea that wherever you look, anything beautiful or shiny is a part of the person that is gone. That our loved ones are part of everything that shines is a concept first told to me by my mother, and explained in this childrens book that I love so much I've been sending copies to people that have a death in their families. It struck a chord with my son, who spent most of the week following the funeral pointing out things and talking about his memories. Now he's keeping busy filling in his memory book - and has asked for some pictures of his Poppa in his bedroom, which we'll happily hang in a place of honour.

 This is an original Canada Moms Blog post. Jessica blogs at daysgoby. Photo by the author.

saving the world, albeit a little sneakily

 My local grocery store recently went bagless. That is to say, they will let you use your own bags (their re-useable fabric bags prominently displayed at all the check outs - only 99 cents!) or you can purchase plastic bags (biodegradeable, huge, thick things) at five cents apiece.
And even though the chain is projecting this significant move will result in a 55 per cent decrease in the number of plastic shopping bags it distributes and help to eliminate one billion plastic shopping bags from landfills in 2009 - which I'm all for, save the earth, rah rah rah -  I can't help feeling a little....well....duped.
I've no problem with the cloth bags. Even remembering to drag them out of the back of the car isn't as hard as it used to be - the 'oh, damnit!' moment seems to be coming in the middle of the parking lot now, instead of when I'm inside the store, so yes, that's a success. The cloth bags are sturdier, more-packable (okay, I made that word up, but you know what I mean) and don't tip. They're loverly.
The problem comes when I get up to the cashier and discover I'm a carrier bag short of carrying everything outside.

When the cashier chirps 'Would you like to buy a plastic bag for five cents?' I'm dumbfounded. Didn't I already pay for those? Wasn't the cost of those (admittedly lovely large strong biodegradeable) plastic bags already figured into the cost of the food I just bought? Aren't you asking me to pay twice for something? Isn't that illegal??
I live in Canada. Food prices are NOT noticeably coming down, even at the chain that boasts the strongest private label program in Canada. (Actually, this particular chain showed a significant profit last quarter, even in the face of the highest food inflation Canada has seen in 27 years.) In other words, my grocery bill has not adjusted to reflect that the store is no longer using plastic bags. So why am I being charged for them at the check-out?
Wouldn't it be fairer to give a five cent discount for each cloth bag that was used in packing your groceries? The alternative being used now seems questionable - a sneaky way to make a profit while claiming it's all about the earth.
I know it's just a nickel. In the grand scheme of things - of cleaning the environment, of leaving the world a better place than when I entered it, of teaching my children to conserve/reuse/recycle -  it's a tiny, tiny thing.
I can't shake the feeling, though, that I'm being fleeced. And I don't like that, even in the name of saving the world.

This is an original Canada Moms post. Jessica also blogs at daysgoby and tries to save the world a little bit at a time.
photo by andrewcurrie