Coming Soon To A Bookshelf Near You

“Thinkaboutit: Philosophy for Kids”, a series of books for young thinkers, including snappy discussions, interviews with history’s coolest thinkers, try-it-yourself experiments, and nifty activity pages. Stay tuned to our website (www.kidsthinkaboutit.com) for more information, or contact us (amy@enabletc.com) to be added to our email bulletin.

Milton Mompreneur Showcase

I'll be joining my fellow business moms at the Milton Mompreneur Showcase. Join us for demonstrations, raffles, samples and lots of other goodies.

Saturday October 16th, 12-4 pm
Milton Sports Centre
605 Santa Maria Blvd., Milton
www.mompreneurshowcase.webs.com

Baby Talk: My New Second Language

A couple of months ago, I was listening to an interview with award-winning novelist Yann Martel. A new father, he was commenting on his recent overuse of the word "cute". He mused at how strange it was that while he made his living stringing together elegant phrases, he couldn't help but resort to "cute". His infant son's complete and overwhelming cuteness demanded that he regress.

Before I became a parent, I swore I'd never use baby babble. I feared that it would not only inhibit the intellectual development of my child, but would stunt my own progress. I vowed I would never refer to myself in third person. I swore I'd avoid using a squeaky voice to sing the praises of someone's teeny little toes. I hoped I would be able to hang onto some degree of eloquence.

Like Martel, I've fallen into a new, goofy mindset. I coo over chubby legs and fluffy toys. I ask ridiculous, rhetorical questions like "Who's a pretty baby?" I make pop and squeak noises with my face and change song lyrics to include my little one's name. It's completely involuntary.

Linguistically, I've turned into a complete dork. What's even worse is that I'm actually loving it. There is absolutely no need to put on a show for my daughter. She couldn't care less if I lose my composure, or if I refuse to act my age. She's given me leave to be a complete idiot, and instead of being demeaning, it's a relief. She and I will both have plenty of time to stumble over big words and fancy imagery later on.

The Real Miracle

Well, the cat's out of the bag. A little less than six weeks ago, after nine months of fanfare, I reproduced. The good news is, my fears about not bonding with my daughter were unfounded (don't laugh, sometimes it really doesn't happen). She's only as big as a roasting chicken, and she's managed to make sloppy, grinning morons out of everyone who crosses her path. Pretty impressive really, considering she can scream in pitches only dogs can hear, and is capable of producing her weight in projectile filth every few hours. A little fuzz of hair, a set of tiny fingernails, and the ability to make little squeak noises go a long, long way.

Okay, dare I say it, the cheesy overstatement that everyone makes that I swore I'd avoid as a parent? Yup, she's a miracle. A year ago she wasn't, and now she is- ex nihilo personified. First babies are miracles, and they dumbfound their adoring parents on a daily basis.

The real miracle, however, are the children who come next. I'm sleep deprived, sore, and figurative language fails me miserably on this one. This job is hard. Damn hard. As much as I'm overwhelmed with awe at the little squirming thing I've produced, I'm positively gobsmacked that after all of this, anyone else ever chooses to have a second child. All babies are miracles, but the ones that get let into the house after all the bedlam of the inaugural baby are truly spectacular. Anyone who sneaks in after number two should be seen with even greater wonderment. Just a little reminder to any parents who've lost their sense of amazement after a few kids, from someone on the other side of the fence.

An Old Ritual Remembered

It's my sister's wedding day today. Somewhere, about twenty minutes away from me, she's probably rushing around, going over her lists of things to do. She's picked a fantastic partner, and I think the event this evening is going to be just like her- fun, friendly and colourful. I'm ready to celebrate every aspect of this marriage.

However, as I do my own rushing around, getting ready, I'm reminded of another ritual, one that used to take place almost thirty years ago. I'm staring at myself in the mirror, hair chock-full of rollers, and all of the sudden, I'm seven years old again. My grandmother, who died when I was twelve, is twisting my stubborn little locks around tubes of pink foam with her soft, wrinkly hands. In an hour or two, she'll take them out, and coo praises, even though I look like Shirley Temple in a wind tunnel.

Today, we're having a wedding, the pinnacle of tradition. There will be vows and rings and speeches, a big dinner and lots of dancing. As I said, I'm elated to be part of it, but I'm also humbled and surprised at the tiny ritual that's caught my attention, and thankful that even those who aren't with us can still attend the big event.

Attack of the Little Fish

We've become addicted to hyperbole.

Reality shows (I know, the name is ironic) feature participants whose every emotional drama and bodily function is the stuff of Greek tragedy. Every new invention is set to change our entire way of life. The common person on the street is ready, willing and able to speak volumes about subjects he or she knows nothing about. Bloggers like me spend hours firing our musings into the ethos, hoping someone will notice.

While I'm relieved that the world is changing in such a way that everyone can have their say, I'm a little concerned at our collective insistence that we're all entitled to be important, all of the time. It seems that the same mechanisms that allow us to get up on our soap boxes and be heard could be the same one that makes us feel small in the first place. Let's face it, our global village is getting considerably more populated. It could be that we're all now acutely aware of the size of our "pond", not to mention the fact that all of the rest of the little fishes out there can now swim right in our faces.

I'm confident that this pendulum, like many before it, will someday swing the other way. We'll gain confidence in our own individual "specialness" and get over the need to scream it from rooftops at every opportunity. As a wise person once mused, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Until then, I'm not ashamed to admit that this little fish, like her contemporaries, is willing to wait until everyone else acknowledges her awesomeness. Hey, I'm only human.

Business, With Two X Chromosomes

Becoming an entrepreneur was a little intimidating. When I began, I had absolutely no experience in the business world. I knew nothing of keeping books, balancing budgets, devising marketing strategies or conducting meetings. I was a confirmed "artsy", and until then, I'd been quite content to let someone else sweat over profits. It was my role to be creative and dynamic, to inspire and delight.

When we (my husband and I) decided to give small business a go, I did what I thought a person was supposed to do. I read books, dusted off my stodgy pantsuits and prepared to get aggressive with our competition. I braced myself for phones that rang incessantly, and memos to be written. I bought into the Donald Trump, Hollywood-ized version of business, the one full of predators and life-or-death situations.

Four years later, I'm happy to report that my experience of small business ownership has been completely redefined. For one thing, I've found that there is still room for creativity. Indeed, our success as a company has depended on us thinking in wacky new ways. It also isn't as fiercely competitive as I had feared. Perhaps it's the recession, or just a new social trend, but collaboration seems to be as popular as corporate head-butting.

My greatest relief was to find that business wasn't the "boys' club" I had feared (I use gender stereotypes only when necessary). Perhaps it was because I actively sought other successful women, or because I happened to fall in with the right group at the right time. Whatever the reason, time and time again, I've found myself in the company of female entrepreneurs who've managed to represent our half of the population with style and grace. Moreover, they've done so on their own terms, making their living by doing what they truly love. Happily (and perhaps not surprisingly), they've also attracted male business partners who seem relieved at the chance to earn a living while still having a life.

Tonight, I'm attending an open house full of successful women. They come at business from a variety of angles- baker, counselor, artist, designer, but they all bring a different brand of fantastic to their business. Perhaps someone should write Donald Trump and let him know...

March Break Workshops for Kids!

Food and Philosophy Fun for March Break!
Don't Let Good Ideas Go To Waste!

Calling all thinkers aged 8-18! Join us for a Think-A-Thon on Tuesday, March 16 at 87 Up in Georgetown (87 Main St. South).

Thinkers aged 8-12 will be discussing the wonders of robots (and their human friends) from 1:30-3:30 pm. Thinkers aged 13-18 will take a look at the wonders of modern media (yes, even the infamous Facebook and Twitter) from 3:30-5 pm. For those interested in tempting their taste buds as well as their minds, there will also be a variety of fantastic cooking workshops offered during the week.

Think-A-Thon workshops are $10 per thinker, per topic (prices vary for cooking classes). Register by calling Foodstuffs at (905) 877-6569. For more information, see the attached brochure, or call Amy Leask at (905) 864-1858 x2 (email amy@enabletc.com).

Brochure Link:

http://www.foodstuffs.ca/classes/march-break-cooking-classes

An Ode to P.K. Page

I was a bewildered, second-year Canadian literature student, and I had been offered an extension on my assignment in exchange for my attendance at a local reading by P.K. Page. Good little procrastinator that I was, I climbed into the back of a classmate's sub-compact and agreed to put in my time. Don't get me wrong, I had done my reading, and liked Page's work as well as anything else. I was, however, weary of the practice of chopping perfectly good poetry into tiny, nasty, academic morsels. I wanted to read and enjoy, without having to explain or dissect. Oh well, an extension was an extension, and a night away from residence did seem appealing.

Page was a gentle, grandmotherly figure who read her work patiently, reverently, and made witty comments between pieces. Crunched into the back corner with my peers, I was actually enjoying myself, until an eager pilgrim at the front stood up and offered her own dissertation-length analysis. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Was it really necessary to fluff one's own feathers like this, in public, and in front of the poet herself? Could a person just listen and enjoy, without having to pick the poem apart like a pithed laboratory frog?

In addition to being a driving force in Canadian poetry, P.K. must have been psychic, or else had hearing keen enough to pick up my grunts of disapproval. She refused to participate in scholarly ego-stroking, and told the audience member something like "Why should I tell you if you're right or wrong? It's not my job to approve or disapprove your views. Just take from it whatever you want to take from it. "

With a lash of her tongue, P.K. Page had reclaimed poetry for me. I no longer felt guilty for saying things like "I like it." and "It's good." I was free to read in bed and let things wash over me, without having to justify my enjoyment. Now a writer myself, I expect nothing less from my own readers.

Cheers to you, P.K.!

Peace on Earth Through the Internet

All I wanted were a few extra lights. I figured since it wasn't even December yet, hitting the local hardware store wouldn't be too much of an ordeal. However, a month before Christmas, the aisles were already teaming with cranky, overtired holiday shoppers, and the shelves were mostly picked-over. Even the parking lot was depressing, a zig-zag ballet of distracted drivers.

When I got home, there were reports on television about tramplings at department stores, and frantic pilgrims shooting each other over the last Tickle Me Elmo. The tumult was such that it had been declared "Black Friday". Ugh.

I decided I could make due with what we already had, and more importantly, that I would avoid shopping malls and big box centres like the plague until well after Boxing Day. For the next month, there would be lots of baking sessions, and tree trimming, and listening to Jimmy Buffett's version of "Christmas Island". There would not, I vowed, be any unnecessary contact with nasty vibes. I didn't want to have to stoop to doing anything that might get me on the naughty list.

At that point, I uttered a prayer of thanks for the Internet for making it possible for me to remain in my happy little holiday bubble. I could do my gift shopping online, and have goodies show up at my house, as if left by magical invisible elves. I could donate to charities while sipping cider and eating cookies. I could send greetings around the world without unnecessary paper waste and postage. Cyber-cynics could gripe all they wanted about a lack of human contact, and the downfall of social relations. Perhaps they were right, but at this point in the calendar, I was happy to stay away from other people, to wish them well from afar, and to not be part of the tinsel-trimmed insanity.

Declaration of the Picky Foodie

One of the highlights of my recent trip to Chicago was a food tour. We walked, we chatted, we admired the architecture, and we nibbled liberally on all sorts of delicious tidbits. I had had my very first Ruben sandwich, followed by samples of imported tea, exotic spices, handmade chocolate, and a slab of the miraculous, deep-dish pizza for which the city is famous. While exploring the city on our own, we noticed that literally every third building was some sort of market or eating establishment. Here, sustenance was serious business, and it came in every shape, form, size and flavour imaginable. This was a city that took its palate seriously.

Keen to get in on the action, we found a nearby Gastro-Pub, a place which was supposed to serve down-to-earth, comforting fare with a gourmet twist. Our hearts sunk as we read the menu, which boasted inflated prices, and options that looked like the chefs were trying entirely too hard. Evidently, using young (aka small) chickens, pureed liver and a few sprinkles of exotic pink salt was all that was needed to elevate their cuisine to a higher level. We left the restaurant hungry and discouraged.

Hope returned the next day in a tiny Thai cafe, with a plate of steaming, spicy noodles. We gobbled as fast as our chopsticks would allow us to. Later in the week, we tucked hungrily into a savoury steak sandwich so greasy that the bun disintegrated before we could eat all of it. I decided one morning to have fresh mini donuts and hot chocolate for breakfast. Heaven.

I think I've given up on the notion of fancy food. Intellectually, I get the subtle nuances of adding a wee sprig of this or that rare herb, or essence of something or other, or stuffing this food with that food. I appreciate when things taste different, or when someone has gone to the trouble of inventing an entirely new dish. Haute cuisine has indeed become a modern art and for this, I praise it. I just don't like eating it.

When I think back on Chicago, I'm going to remember that slice of pizza. When I think Austin, Texas, giant gingerbread pancakes from Magnolia Cafe will spring to mind. Honolulu will conjure images of Cocoa Puffs from Lilha Bakery. Barcelona will be about Churros con chocolate, and Paris will be about lemon tarts, and Tokyo will be about humble buckwheat noodles with soy sauce. The most memorable things I've ever eaten have been on park benches, or while hovering over the kitchen sink. I may be a right little cretin, as far as my culinary aspirations go, but I'm a cretin with a satisfied stomach.

Death By Pollen: A Note on the Superiority of the Human Species

Shakespeare once wrote, "Why man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus" to describe the human tendency to stomp around like we own the place. The bard was smart that way, and was courageous enough to be brutally honest about our flaws. We really do take for granted that we're secure in our spot at the top of the food chain. We're stupid that way- really, really stupid.

If you want to look at the bigger picture, you can read up on swine flu, killer bees, or tidal waves. On a regular basis, Mother Nature makes it very clear that she could take or leave us. This time of year, in my particular corner of the universe, I get a polite, but firm reminder of my own cosmic insignificance. I get this reminder shoved right up my nose, as I'm taught humility by a mangy little weed in the backyard. Actually, I'm schooled by the stuff that blows off the mangy little weed.

My hay fever isn't really even that bad. I am however, suitably impressed that a handful of spores, invisible to the naked eye, can leave a giant sack of meat like me mouth-breathing and clammy for two weeks. It brings to mind the work of another literary giant, Dr. Seuss. My hat's off to the universe for helping me to remember that I am more of a "Who" than a "Horton".

Behind Every Great Author...

I just saw "Julie and Julia". It was one of those evenings during which I got to see bits and pieces of my life flash before me. No, I'm not a gifted chef (yet) or a best-seller (yet), but I am a writer, and like both Julie and Julia, I spend a lot of time being neurotic and cranky about the stuff I'm working on. Like both women, I also have a husband who has to put up with me being neurotic and cranky. Mine watched the film eagerly, with a knowing smile on his face, occasionally squeezing my hand when the episodes on screen seemed a little too familiar.

It's occurred to me on a number of occasions that having a writer as a partner is probably a lot like being married to someone with a parasitic twin. There's a third person in the relationship, one that takes up considerable space, time and energy. This grouchy squatter doesn't pay rent, do laundry, or make nice with the neighbours. Worst of all, getting rid of it would likely kill the writer.

I'm not sure if literary "better halves" get the recognition or praise they deserve. True, life with one of us creative types is rarely dull. There may be some sort of thrill in knowing that the manuscripts being mashed and bashed beneath your own roof could be read for centuries to come. If you're lucky, your angst-ridden paramour may turn out to be the next J.K. Rowling, and you'll be fiscally rewarded for your patience. Still, one has to wonder if Shakespeare's move to London without his family was instigated by a fed-up wife, or if Virginia Woolf's husband longed for the day when she would take up plumbing.

I'd like to raise a glass to all of our co-vivants. Here's to the dutiful and loyal souls that know when to back slowly out of a room full of crumpled up papers! Hooray for those who bring us tea and cookies as we struggle with yet another draft! Long-live all of the partners who become in-house proofreaders and amateur therapists! We may not be able to promise you peace, quiet, or even sanity, but chances are, when we write you into our next great masterpiece as a character, you won't be killed off.

Yet Another Farewell to Michael Jackson

This is probably a little late in the game. The shocking news has been announced, the memorial services have been held, and Entertainment Tonight has almost run out of things to talk about. Perhaps now that the dust is starting to settle, I'll throw in my two cents and pay my respects.

Although Michael Jackson and I have fallen out of communication over the past decade or so, I did admire him once. Nine-year-old Amy had a Michael Jackson doll, a Michael Jackson t-shirt, and Thriller on vinyl. I spent hours sewing crooked silver sequins onto one of my grandmother's old white cocktail gloves, and I endured teasing when I wore a black and red pleather ensemble to school. I grilled my parents for details about his career with The Jackson Five. As an adult, it hurt to look at photos of his latest plastic surgery adventure, but I still bought his music on CD and admired his ability to put together funky beats and interesting lyrics.

The most poignant lesson Michael Jackson has taught me doesn't really pertain to his music. It has to do with our inability to let an artist's work stand for itself. I wonder if it's possible, in 2009, to just step back and say "Great song!" without wondering who put it out, what they were wearing, and how many times they've been photographed without underwear. Do we really need to know how much of a weirdo someone is in order to enjoy (or condemn) what they create?

Historically speaking, a lot of great creative minds have been perverts, hooligans, recluses, drunks and all-around creeps. Jeremy Bentham, proponent of utilitarianism, insisted on having his remains stuffed and put on display at a London library. Shakespeare was a player in more than one way. Virginia Woolf was chronically suicidal. The list is endless, but in most cases, we still admire their work. As far as I can tell, very few great artists ever ask the general public to walk in their shoes. They just want us to pay attention to their stuff.

I'm not prepared to forget Michael Jackson's fall from grace. I don't know if he was really a pedophile, or if he was guilty of any of the sins of which he was accused. I do know, however, that when played at a party, "Billy Jean" will get people on their feet. I know that I still occasionally catch myself trying to moonwalk. If you need an example of the wonderful ways in which his music (and not his life) have inspired people, go to Youtube and look up the ABC scene from "Clerks 2". Trust me.

Change in Schedule for Children's Workshop

"What Are We Really?", our workshop for children interested in philosophy and the environment, has been moved to Thursday, July 23 from 10-11:30 am. Young thinkers ages 7-12 are welcome, and this is a free event. There will be discussions about critters of all shapes and sizes (including humans), fun activities, as well as take-home resources for parents. Space is limited. To reserve a spot, please contact POWER Halton Hills at info@powerhalton.ca, or at (905) 873-1820. If you'd like to know more about the workshop itself, feel free to contact Amy Leask at amy@enabletc.com, or at (905) 864-1858 x3. Hope to see you there!

Three Grandmothers, Two Decades and A Bunch of Ugly Scarves Later, I Get it.

They were incredibly patient with me. I was a geeky, awkward kid who just wanted to eat Oreos and watch cartoons, but they dutifully sat and instructed me. I dutifully poked the needles around in the wool, looped and stitched and pearled the raw materials into monstrosities that looked positively lopsided and moth-eaten. I clunked my way through two grandmothers, both of whom had the awe-inspiring ability to knit without even looking at their work, to churn out sweaters and blankets and pillows in record time. In the end, I waved the white flag, decided that I didn’t need to know how to do stuff like this. When I grew up and found my true love, I had to tell yet another doting and knit-talented grandmother that while I admired her work, I wasn’t interested in producing my own.

And so it went for about twenty years, with me reading Sartre and listening to jazz and watching art films. I fed my head twenty-four-seven, and my impatient, itchy little fingers only got to feel useful when I decided to bake a birthday cake or hem a pair of pants. I worried about all the things I hadn’t had time to do in the past, and all of the things I needed to do in the future, and occasionally, when I had a spare moment, I might enjoy the present.

About a year and a half ago, some very wise people introduced me to the idea of being “grounded”, of sticking my feet in the dirt and getting out of my head once in a while. There are all kinds of ways to do this, most of which are a challenge to a type-A cliché like me. Eventually, however, I found my way back to the needles, and in the process, I found a way to anchor myself to myself again.

It started with a book of patterns for amigurumi, little yarn dolls in all manner of shapes and sizes. The ones I had my eye on were zombies and sea monsters, not your average craft projects. The end products looked so cool and quirky that I resolved to get over my childhood aversion to traditional handicrafts. I might not be able to sew, or knit, or do needlepoint, but I knew that if I really tried, I could deal with a simple crochet pattern.

Somewhere between a three-inch-tall ninja, and a tennis ball-sized frog, I entered the zone. I was no longer buzzing about my next writing project, or unpaid invoices, or office politics. All I could think was “Chain stitch. Chain stitch. Chain stitch.” I was there, on the couch. All of me. No exceptions. The tranquility I sought, I found with an aluminum hook and a bucket of polyester yarn.

Coming Events!

• Diversity matters! Learn about the many species that share our planet, and discuss ways to keep them happy and healthy. Visit Amy and POWER at the Georgetown Market place on Friday, May 29 from 4-8 for demonstrations and information.
• Adults need philosophy too! Step into big ideas and discuss our place in the ecosystem at POWER Halton Hills on Thursday, June 25 from 7 to 9 pm. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for details.
• Kids care about the environment! Join us for a children's eco-philosophy workshop at POWER Halton Hills on July 16 from 10-11:30 am. Email amy@enabletc.com or call (905) 864-1858 x3 for more details.

My New-Aged Ipod

When I bought my Ipod, it was with great chagrin. I was teaching at the time, and I competed with the little electronic beasts for my students’ attention on a daily basis. I did the “pull out your earphones” gesture about as often as I turned a page. I wanted one so that I could keep alert and relaxed while slogging my way through my very large pile of marking, and it worked. Within weeks, I was so smitten that I purchased a colourful sticker to disguise its bland, silver exterior, and I hungrily downloaded anything funky enough to capture my interest. It was cute as a button, and it seemed that whenever I needed a lift, the perfect song title would dance across its tiny screen.

It didn’t take long to notice that my new musical friend played favourites. Songs and artists tended to repeat themselves. One week, my Ipod had a thing for Blondie, and the next, it was preoccupied with George Clinton. I turned it over and over in my hand, wondering how musical taste could be built into something the size of a credit card. It occurred to me that my Ipod’s predilection for choosing certain songs could be put to good use. One day, when I was contemplating the mysteries of the universe, I set the little gadget to shuffle, took some cleansing breaths and asked a few key questions.

I wondered “What should I do about this manuscript I’ve been working on?” and hit play. Bob Marley reassured me with “Don’t let them change ya! Or even rearrange ya!” Interesting.

Then I inquired about another project that wasn’t getting the reception I had hoped for. The answer came from The Doors, who reassured me that “People are strange, when you’re a stranger.” Whoa.

When I asked how my friend in a different province was feeling, Neil Young responded with “I need you.” I called her later on that evening.

No, I didn’t start thinking that my Ipod was possessed, or that helpful little house elves were sending me messages through something I bought at a big box store. I like to think that the universe has better things to do than speak to me through my stereo equipment (that’s what grilled cheese sandwiches and sweat stained t-shirts are for). It wasn’t fool-proof either. I’m still trying to figure out what spiritual lessons can be learned from “The Macarena” or “The Devil Went Down to Georgia”.

The entire exercise did, however, demonstrate that in some bizarre, Jungian way, one can use the songs in a playlist to help clear one's head and get some much-needed perspective. Even a beginner model Ipod like mine can hold enough tunes to a keep person surprised. An eclectic music collection helps too, as wisdom and clarity often come in unexpected forms. If one listens with one’s right brain, “Baby Got Back” becomes a lesson in positive body image, and “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” encourages one to lighten up a little. Songs like “Shiny Happy People” and “We Are the Champions” are fairly self-explanatory.

Music has always been used to “soothe the savage beast”. Apparently, with the help of a hand-held MP3 player, and a willingness to listen to just about anything, it can also serve the same function as a deck of tarot cards, or a magic 8 ball. Life, the universe, and everything are much easier to decipher while singing off-key and dancing around the living room.

Chivalry Isn't Dead. It just got shorter.

Reaffirmation of one's faith in humanity is found in strange places. Mine got a little kick start last week, at a technical competition in an enormous conference centre, surrounded by robots of various sizes and functions. The machines themselves were impressive (though they didn't resemble anything from The Jetsons or Terminator movies), but the young people designing and driving them were nothing short of admirable. It wasn't their technical skill or mechanical know-how either. I was surrounded by thousands of them, aged six through eighteen, and with almost no exception, they were...well, they were nice.

To begin with, they were actually excited to be there. Wifi didn't really work in the convention centre, and there were very few laptops without actual code on the screens. The lack of the usual brand of stimulus didn't seem to phase them. They made and distributed buttons with team logos, danced around in costumes, and high-fived other teams as they made their way into the arena. Even more shocking was their unrelenting politeness. I actually heard please and thank you, and when one team had a piece of broken machinery, another gladly gave them their spares. When one of the robots failed to ship, the teams nearby offered to help build a last-minute replacement.

I was a little confused. Where was the attitude, the abject nastiness this generation was supposed to dish out? Where were the sneers and the indifference? Why were they cheering each other on, jumping up and down in the stands and praising complete strangers? I asked one of the coaches to explain this bizarre phenomenon and his answer explained everything.

"Only the grown ups involved get grouchy and competitive."

An “Adult” Relationship

It was a great anniversary, although a fairly no-frills one. We were on our way home from a business trip, and had the better part of the day free. We had a great lunch in a small, but charming bistro. We walked in the park, sat in the sun, and got caught up on each other’s lives. At one point, my sweetheart paused and remarked “You realize our relationship is old enough to vote.”

Yup, it’s now been eighteen years, really good years. Our first years together were spent flirting across the room during band practice. At university, when I’d been up all night studying, he’d wake me around noon with a sub sandwich and a cup of tea. We’ve been through four degrees, three houses, four continents, and a dog. We’ve crammed as much wonderful relationship stuff into eighteen years as two people can. Our relationship has definitely grown up.

It’s ironic that what’s got us here is our habit of being distinctly immature. Eighteen years has taught us that it’s okay to admit to being hooked on cartoons and cheesy talk shows. We’ve learned that bed heads and wrinkled pyjamas can be charming. We still hold hands and tell stupid jokes. We’ve found that an argument is officially over when one of us starts giggling. Our couplehood may have reached adulthood, but we as individuals have fought hard to remain the same dorky teenagers that we were when we hooked up.

A long time ago, we danced together for the first time. The song was “Forever Young” by Alphaville. Hmmmm…good advice.