Why oh why did I choose child care at *anonymous leisure centre in Calgary*? This was the me centre that I had problems with earlier this year. But they were offering drop-in camp in the summer and it was close by. And I was in need of child care because I’m an overworked working mom, well, just because. 

So I go to pick up Army Boy at the camp and they are just coming out of the pool. Or, rather, most of them are already out and waiting for the stragglers to get changed. Army Boy is always a straggler marches to his own drum and is on his own schedule, don’tchyaknow. I wait five … ten minutes. When I can’t wait any longer I hope the “Exit Only” turnstile and stand outside the boy’s room and yell “get out here this minute or you are going to lose some serious privileges!” He pops right around the corner, fully dressed. What the heck?

I’m about to read him the Dawdler’s Bill of Rights when something makes me stop. I ask him why he was in there so long.

Oh, no reason…other than helping one of his classmates get out of a locker he was locked in.

What?

I asked the camp leader if she was aware of this. “Yeah.” She seems to be sympathetic. So, someone is in there helping him? “Yeah.” Does this not seem wrong to you? I am paying to have my kid at Lord of the Flies camp or what? “Yeah.”

I headed over to Guest Services and let them know that I was not pleased. Army Boy is not big, he’s practically hand-in-glove for a locker. In fact, the one locked in is actually older and bigger.

Hand to God if I find out my kid gets locked in there they’ll have hellfire and damnation coming down their road. Guess what it’s called when you lock someone in a locker: assault. If I were to grab another adult and stick him/her in a locker I could face charges. So what’s the deal with some grade three kid getting locked in there and it’s no big deal?

What would you do?

I am having one of THOSE weeks. Yeah, one of those that happen to coincide with a birthday, too much work, ovulation and the last day of school. Like, holy crap.

Earlier this week E-Toddler broke out in a rash two days in a row. She has a history of allergies (milk & coconut) but she seemed to have grown out of them. But suddenly, full body hives. So I took her in to the doctor to get them checked out. And asked if they could remind me which doctor she’d been referred to for allergy testing. When he’d seen her at about 7 months old he’d said “just call back and book an appointment for a year from now”.

Then, whoopsie, life happened and we moved TWICE and now it’s 16 months later and I forgot to book that appointment four months ago.. no biggie, right?

Wrong. Apparently someone needs to get paid a referral fee because when I called to book the appointment the receptionist told me that I’d have to go BACK to my doctor and get another referral to come to the allergist again for a follow up.

So, time until our doctor can see us: about 3 weeks. Then we can get a referral to go back to the darn doctor (and some money will change hands between my doctor and the allergist, I’m sure) for re-testing. I was so irritated. What is with this stupid referral system in Canada? What is the point? Why can’t I just call up an allergist and make a silly appointment? Is this country afraid of a little capitalism? Would it mean that the really good doctors would be busy and the crap doctors wouldn’t have enough patients? Gee, that would be really sad.

But, on a positive note, we discovered that the day care had accidentally been putting the wrong sunscreen on her, and now that they are using her sunscreen, the hives have gone away. So all is good.

But don’t get me started about the rude, ignorant owner of the local used kids store. As of right now I’m boycotting the Once Upon A Child store just down the road. Seven years I’ve been shopping there, but no more. I don’t give money to jerk-faces.

Okay. Now that all that is out… let’s have a great rest of the week! (It’s almost over, right?)

I’m a writer. And as is typical of a writer, I have an active imagination. It whirls and swirls and comes up with all sorts of fantasmagoric outcomes for mundane activities.

I made a baloney sandwich. What if at school my son takes the baloney out, puts it over his face and poked holes so he can see through it. Then the teacher sees him and he gets in trouble and I have to go down there and we get in an argument and then I tell her what I REALLY think and then she gets mad and smacks me and I have to call the police for assault and…

 Yeah, my life is one big episode of 24. Really.

But my brain really and truly goes off on tangents. Like it’s got a mind of its own, ha!

Except some days I want to turn it off. Somedays. Like today.

Because today, this is the cover of the Calgary Sun. 

And my brain cannot stop coming up with ways this could happen; what events took place; what did that home sound like? What about when it was all over and all that was to be heard was the crying of that poor, poor baby?

I cry when I read about police and EMS responders crying. But my brain - my infernal, stupid brain - asks what the scene looked like, what it smelled like, what horrible sights there were to see.

I’m not being snoopy, I’m not sadistically wishing I were there, I’m not thinking anything other than how sad the entire situation is.

It tells me that I could go adopt that poor baby and raise her, that I could cuddle and love her just like I do for my own children. It tells me that I would never, ever tell her what happened. Not once. She could find out after I’m gone from some well-meaning (but stupid) family member who wants her to know the truth.

And then she could write her own book about what it’s like to be her.

But my brain, it just doesn’t shut off some days.