Take the Power Back!

I was listening to Take the Power Back by Rage Against the Machine yesterday. If you are not familiar with the song, check out this video. Lyrics and can be found here. The particular passage that made me get to thinking about my current essay is the following;

The present curriculum
I put my fist in 'em
Eurocentric every last one of 'em
See right through the red, white and blue disguise
With lecture I puncture the structure of lies
Installed in our minds and attempting
To hold us back
We've got to take it back
Holes in our spirit causin' tears and fears
One-sided stories for years and years and years
I'm inferior? Who's inferior?
Yeah, we need to check the interior
Of the system that cares about only one culture
And that is why
We gotta take the power back

I thought of my own education, particularly in the earlier years, let’s say grades 4-6. Was it Eurocentric? In looking back I would say that yes, it was predominantly Eurocentric. We learned about the medieval times, the renaissance, the world wars and all the rest. We did learn quite a lot about First Nations culture and struggles between the colonizers and colonized. I would say this was mostly the result of being brought up in a province with an approximately 20% First Nations population. Now I don’t remember many of the particular details of these lessons but, through some neurological malfunction, I made the leap from Rage Against the Maching to Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? Could there be a more perfect venue to evaluate the eurocentricity of my education. I often watched the show as a kid and we had the computer game installed at school (follow this link for a reminder of the theme song).

I set out on the quest to determine the countries that Carmen Sandiego visited (actually she stole landmarks and other stuff and you had to catch her). A quick visit to Wikipedia confirmed the follow countries (Note that cities are identified as they were in the game and that they are followed by the country that the city would have been located in at the time the game was produced)

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Sydney, Australia

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Montreal, Canada

Peking, China

Moroni, Comoros

Cairo, Egypt

Paris, France

Athens, Greece

Budapest, Hungary

Reykjavík, Iceland

New Delhi, India

Baghdad, Iraq

Rome, Italy

Tokyo, Japan

Bamako, Mali

Mexico City, Mexico

Kathmandu, Nepal

Oslo, Norway

Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea

Lima, Peru

Kigali, Rwanda

San Marino, San Marino

Singapore

Moscow, Soviet Union

Colombo, Sri Lanka

Bangkok, Thailand

Istanbul, Turkey

London, United Kingdom

New York, United States


Let’s look at a few descriptive statistics related the European and non-European countries visited by Carmen Sandiego (Table 1.). Examining Table 1 suggests that Carmen Sandiego was not as Eurocentric as I may have guessed at first glance at the included countries.

Table 1. Frequency of European and Non-European countries in Carmen Sandiego.
European non-European
Frequency 10 20


However, further research suggests that “eurocentrism is a term coined during the period of decolonization in the later 20th century to refer to the practice of viewing the world from a European perspective, with an implied belief, either consciously or subconsciously, in the preeminence of European (and, more generally, of Western) culture (Wikipedia).” Thus, it is more accurate to categorize countries as Western (or developed) based on the United Nations classifications (Table 2). “In common practice, Japan in Asia, Canada and the United States in northern America, Australia and New Zealand in Oceania, and Europe are considered "developed" regions or areas (Wikipedia).”

Table 2. Frequency of Developed and Developing countries in Carmen Sandiego.
Developed Developing Least Developed
Frequency 11 16 3

Based on this new classification it appears that Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? is not as Eurocentric as I had imagined. But given this data, I’m not exactly sure what the conclusion this essay should be. This case study of the Eurocentrism of my education tells me that perhaps it was not as bad as Rage against the Machine had made me believe. But lets be serious, this was just a crazy idea anyway and does not really represent my true educational experience. In history class we had to be able to draw the map of Europe and outline the countries freehand. We didn’t learn much about Africa, South American or Asia, but my teacher was a bit eccentric so we did get to watch Quest for Fire. I think that’s all you really need to know about my education freehand Europe and Quest for Fire, enough said.

What Do You Mean You're Full?

As compared to many of my co-workers I am a relative newb (please note, newb is not the same as noob) in the food service industry. I started out in catering several years ago and have been serving in restaurants for over two years now. I have recently adopted my boss’s theory that all people are stupid (until proven otherwise). As such, I find it best to predict and prevent any stupid things they may do which will make my life more difficult. However, even when this gameplan is in full effect, some people still out-stupid my expectations. Here are a few tips about the food-service industry from an insider to prevent you from awing them with your ignorance:

Reservations

o Do it (ie: make one). Not only will it prevent disappointment for you and your party, but will make the kitchen staff and serving staff’s jobs easier.
o Know why you’re doing it. You are calling to make a reservation to determine whether your party can be accommodated and if so, assure yourselves a spot. This inherently means that there may not be space for you. If you know this in advance, you will not get angry when you are kindly informed that there is an event going on in the restaurant and your party cannot be accommodated that evening. “What do you mean you’re full?!” is not going to get you a table.



Food

o Read the menu. Yes, particularly whatever is written about the item you wish to order. If it says there is chèvre in the dish, do not send back your food because chèvre makes you gag.
o Ask questions. If there is a word on the menu you don’t understand, find out what it means before your order it. And no, Oyster mushrooms have nothing to do with oysters.
o Eat it and critique it. In a good restaurant, the kitchen staff will be open to feedback. Give them what they want.



Refills

o Are not always free. And when they aren’t, it is not the server’s fault.
o Are best asked for when the server is not visibly doing 12 other things (ie: still bringing out food to others at your table of 16)



Paying

o Sign your credit card slip. (yes, every time, please)
o Don’t discuss the tip with your server. This will undoubtedly be awkward. If you’ve never been out for dinner before and are unsure of what an acceptable tip is, you are not likely dining alone, so, ask your friend.



Now, if despite what you have read about the stupidity of many customers you would like to seek employment in the industry, I have on simple rule for you: DO NOT call or drop in to apply for a job over lunch of dinner hours. Anyone who would take your resume will be busy during these hours, and will be frustrated if you make them busier. This sort of thing screams ignorant from the get-go, so avoid it at all costs. All in all, a little common sense and consideration are all that is required, so good luck and happy eating!

I Should Have Been a Dancer

The pain of the following admission can only be matched by that of a celiac belly reaction following the ingestion of a chocolate dip from Tim Horton’s. Over the last three seasons I have watched with intent on a semi-regular basis So You Think You Can Dance. You may ask, why would a man that hates reality TV, who it could be argued actually hates reality and TV, watch such a show? Well it is a question I have asked of myself several times and will attempt to clarify in this essay, maybe.

Dance in my 28-year history has been a minimal phenomenon until recently. As a high school Don Juan I attended not a single school dance. As an unrepresentative citizen of Saskatchewan I only learned how to 2-step 2 years ago and to this day consistently get it confused with the Polka (which is quite funny as I never learned that step either). Even though my youth was more or less dance-free aside from the odd time the effects of alcohol released my inhibitions, with age I have become a dance floor disco dance champion. In reality it is fun, social, and at times a great way to forget you are surrounded by the stupidest of hominids when you find yourself in unsavory establishments for example Whiskey Jacks. The last time I was there on a Saturday (I blame the Poulin-Denis/Benoit ultimate power duo for myself being there, who by the way maintain one of the strongest bromances ever) in between my moon-walks and head spins I saw a PG clip of a birth on the TV and when I looked around at the drunken sex-driven social interactions I realized the incredible irony in those interactions given, in my estimation, that there was going to be 4 unwanted pregnancies conceived that night. But I digress.

Dance is an art form synonymous with expression relating to the human form and the interaction of forms. It is the physical counterpart to music exemplified by the fact that in many languages the word for dance and music are the same, according to a recent episode of The Nature of Things. Thus it is an inherent element in being human. So why do I like dance?

Firstly dance (and I refer here to professional dancers with mad skills) requires extreme athleticism, and I would argue so extreme that it is almost unmatched by any other athletic endeavor. As a former athlete for me athleticism is next to godliness because of the power and emotion experienced when seeing someone physically excel to the point of triumph (watch the Men’s 100m sprint). Second dance as an art form can and often does include many other art forms such as music, costume, lighting, and graphics/painting. No other art form facilitates the fusion of other forms like dance can. This ability creates layering and adds complexity to the performance, which allows the audience to become immersed and lost in the story and engage in a cognitive as well as entertaining experience. Thirdly dance embodies a sensuality and sexuality that is undeniably intriguing and exciting. Dancers, male and female alike, are incredibly attractive and their movements, whether solo or in multiples, increases that attraction exponentially. The embodiment of sensuality and sexuality is also manifested in the dancing of regular people albeit in a more talentless and instinctual kind of way, this is why it proliferates as an activity for the masses. As opposed to dance being a means of expression the goal the majority of the time seems to be intercourse and lots of it – just look at the dance floor of any bar. All sorts of people are up bopping around; dudes are either eyeing up or dancing with ladies in the hope of getting laid, and ladies are gyrating and shaking in provocative ways whether just because that’s how they like to dance or that they too want to get laid. Dancing leads to a madhouse of volatile hormones. So You Think You Can Dance has become a readily available means of being exposed to dance without being out, spending money, and being surrounded by hormone-invaded citizens. Perhaps that is why I watch it. But I can’t help but wonder if there is a difference between those that actively have an interest in dance and do it for it’s own sake and those that that engage in it only when it is on TV, when they’re trying to entertain themselves at a bar, or when they’re trying to score a piece of ass.

I think there are people out there who like to groove on the dance floor because of an appreciation and interest in moving, not just listening, to all types of music be it trance, rap, electronic, metal, or rock. I think by doing this people are engaging in a form of self-expression, be it conscious or not. This may not be an expression of anything particular through the movements they make like in a performance piece, although if someone is doing that all the power to them, rather I think it is the expression of self-comfort and confidence. Displaying comfort and confidence in one’s self is the most fundamental form of self-expression because it is internally rooted in identity and the most vulnerable part of an identity. Vulnerability comes from the risk of being judged therefore to do something like dance that signifies overcoming the vulnerability is expressing self-comfort, confidence, and thus themselves. From my observations I do not see society as being full of self-confidence, comfort, and expression. I think people succumb to the risk of vulnerability and put up fronts to protect themselves all too readily. I would love to think that many who cut-loose just for the sake of it, sans booze or bootie, are those who are grounded in themselves and not afraid to show it – a beautiful and poetic relationship between personality and dance could be established. But as the saying goes, you can question a person’s judgment but you cannot question their motivation; so my theory remains unchecked.

I like moving to the beat, watching those who do it better than I in whatever form, even So You Think You Can Dance, and maybe just maybe someday I can dance a little better as a result. I know for me the progression from being a shy stick in the mud to a willing participant on any dance floor or at any music venue have occurred as a result of being more comfortable and confident in myself. I certainly don’t do it to pick up ladies and if I get to the point where I need to dance as a distraction I just leave. So I guess I have at least one piece of supporting evidence towards my theory.

You Climb Like a Guy!

I rock climb. Most of the time, I’m the only girl at the gym climbing. Let’s just say that it’s a refreshing treat when there’s another female in the gym (other than the employees) who I can climb and chat with.
Most of the time this doesn’t bother me and I’m pretty used to it. Lately, however, there have been some guys there who, while quite eager to hang out and climb with me, are constantly bombarding me with comments having to do with how I’m too masculine. For example, they will tell me that my way of being frustrated with my performance is too manly “Shit, Margot, you get mad like a man!” At first, I would simply shrug it off and laugh. But after several comments such as “Woah, you climb like a man – just muscling your way through” despite my ability to climb as well as most of the guys making the comments, I’ve started to patiently explain to them that even though I am a woman, I can climb, talk, get frustrated and grunt just like any other climber, male or female.
It used to be that a woman had to assume “masculine” roles to participate in sports. Otherwise the usual insult was that you ran, threw or performed “like a girl”. Since when did the unacceptable thing to do become doing sports “like a guy”? I wish people would judge my performance on my ability just accept that I am simply an athlete who strives to perform my best – like anyone else.

Shedding Fear, Making Friends

For many who grew up in Saskatoon, Walker’s Nightclub was, and may still be, a frightening place. For me, this fear was not as a result of having actually visited the establishment, but simply based on observations made while skirting past on dark walks home from other more ‘acceptable’ venues. The doors of Walker’s would frequently be open onto the stairwell leading into the dark bar, and heavy metal or punk music was usually to be heard. Those mingling around said doorway were usually bedazzled with multiple painful-looking piercings, and decorated in dark makeup and tattoos. Few persons with natural hair colour were to be found. The group was usually visibly intoxicated and at times rowdy (as one might expect near a drinking establishment). Despite never seeing any violent acts outside of Walker’s it was common knowledge the people frequently get ‘shanked’ in close proximity to this doorway that I so carefully avoided. Hearsay, I might add, heightened the mystery and touch of rebellion that accompanied any and all who attended Walker’s events or simply whiled away hours drinking beer at this, their favourite, downtown establishment.

Recently I encountered a chance to discover the wonders of Walker’s for myself, when a friend scheduled a concert during the annual Jazz Festival and, despite his best efforts, was unable to secure a ‘better’ venue. My desire to see the bands he had scheduled along with my curiosity outweighed my long-held fear. I invited several friends to attend with me, which elicited similar reactions along the lines of “why are you going to Walker’s?!” Despite these not-so-encouraging reactions, I, accompanied by my sister, showed up at Walker’s for a Monday evening show.

Arriving past the scheduled time, we were still early for the show, and as a result had a chance to evaluate Walker’s in all of its glory, with few other customers to obscure the view. I learned from my friend, that the cage which mostly blocks the entrance into the bar at the base of the stairwell was craftily installed by the owners in order to prevent people from running in without paying (apparently a serious problem with those steep $5 - $15 cover charges). Upon closer observation I realized that despite the money that this cage would save the owner, they had not invested much of the projected profits into the cage, as it was constructed of chicken wire. As a result, the cage had several large dents in it, from what I can only assume were very determined cover charge evaders (kudos for the effort, kids).

This show that night fit well with the feeling in Walker’s, not necessarily because the bands playing from various White Whale Records fit with the ‘decor’ (pool and foosball tables, disco light, general dirty appearance and cages both at the entrance and others I believe may be used as dance cages?!), but because the band members were for the most part extremely drunk. This slightly reduced the quality of the music, although I was still impressed by their ability to play in one another’s bands having just recently learned the parts.

Since this first experience, from which I emerged unscathed, I have since been back to Walker’s for another show, hosted by this same friend troubled by music venue availability. The second show which featured two bands from Toronto, Rock Plaza Central and Bruce Peninsula, was much more my style, and the opener (Bruce Peninsula – who were long-listed for the Polaris this year) blew the small crowd away. We could hardly stay seated on the grungy carpeted stair/bleachers which stretch across the back wall of the bar while they clapped, sang, yelled, and played and jingled various instruments.

For those of you Saskatoonians who have yet to visit Walker’s, I will describe it most succinctly by repeating what a friend told me while we were there: it looks like the Bassment without the Jazz Society label to keep it clean! I would provide pictures, but have none. Surprisingly (based on how seriously the management appears to take the upkeep of the venue), I found that Walker’s had made the transition on to the web. I have visited them on their myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/walkersnightclub and after reading that this 95 year old female Aquarius from Saskatoon does drink, but doesn’t smoke, I discovered that (if I was a myspace user) I could become their 273^rd friend, and join the likes of xombi, THE DARK LORD, gorifier, and LilHomeWrecker, just to name a few. Although this was an exciting prospect, it was not quite enough to prompt me to sign myself up for another online account which would undoubtedly consume some potentially productive hours of my life. Tragically, in doing so, I have likely limited the frequency with which I will be cheerily greeted by the song entitled Go Pussy Go, by Pzychobitch, which plays on Walkers’ page.

The mystery, accompanied by the fear of Walker’s has, for me, sadly been replaced. “With what?” you ask? I have yet to decide. Some friends, however, were made on these trips to one of Saskatoon’s sketchiest venues and for that I thank Walker’s.

Ready or Not

Ready or not, here we climb.

I realized right away that I was the most prepared for this trip when I climbed into the ‘jimmy’ in Saskatoon and heard the whoops and hollers in reaction to the cooler bag I brought along filled with food and juice. The three boys, one previously unknown to me, continued to confirm my suspicions as we went along and I realized that mine was the ONLY food or drink in the car. Nevertheless, after an overnight stop in Calgary at someone’s parents house, and a trip to MEC for (essential) climbing gear, we were ready to hit the rock…or so I thought.

We made the short drive to Heart Creek and started unpacking our gear in the parking lot at the base of the mountain. This is when I realized that I was the only one to pack a backpack. So, during our trek up to our climbing spot, I carried all of the gear including the rope, which I had just bought, brand new draws, and harnesses and shoes for all. By the time we arrived at our destination (Solstice), we were all ready for a drink, which is when we realized that I was the only one to have brought a water bottle. In fact, none of the others had brought water at all! Pushing the thought of a day of climbing and hiking without water out of our minds, we started to set up our route. Brett climbed first and completed the route on lead. Unfortunately, as he was finishing the route, some dark clouds rolled in accompanied by thunder. As we were quite high at Solstice with a valley below us, we decided to strip the wall (notice, no more draws on the rock) and get down. We got poured on during the hike down but by the time we were at the car the rain had stopped and we enjoyed a quick lunch in the sun before heading back up. We continued to climb all afternoon until the newbie, made a rookie mistake and left a knot in the rope before trying to take it down at which point it got stuck in the anchors at the top of the route.

After Brett had hiked around to the top of the route and failed to retrieve the knotted end of the rope with a large stick, I hiked down to “first rock” another, more popular climbing spot, to ask some francophones if I could borrow a rope to be able to climb back up and get ours down. They were kind enough not to laugh at our rookie mistake and so I made a third hike back up to Solstice with a heavy rope in hand. Upon arrival I realized that the boys had found another method using the other end of our rope, to climb back up and get ours down.

Other than a few scraped knees, the next day went a lot smoother and we got much more climbing in (without the added bonus of dehydration). We may not have been the most prepared or experienced climbing group at Heart Creek that weekend but it sure made for an interesting trip – one to be repeated.

New Mommies

Yummy mommies, parenting, and the realization that I won’t look this good forever

It all began a few weeks ago on one of the few sunny and mildly warm spring days when I had the urge to be outside, the outstanding natural consequence of a long Saskatchewan winter. There was no concern as to what I would do in the urban wilds of Saskatoon, I only wanted to fulfill the insatiable urge to breathe fresh air, synthesize vitamin D, and enjoy the spectacle of other people doing the same without my eye lashes freezing together. On this particular occasion I found myself on one of several benches on a cul-de-sac off the sinuous Meewasin trail with some fresh Ethiopian dark roast and a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls in my possession. After only a few pages into one of history’s classic portrayals of the human spirit I found myself instantaneously swept up into a world I had never known before that captivated me in a completely unexpected way. Surrounding me was a posse of women, armed with oversized baby carriages to the extent that it was difficult to tell if there were even infants residing in them, outfitted in the latest LuluLemon fashions, and who were all being ushered by a similarly outfitted woman of a military officers persuasion. Not quite the persona of one Sgt. Hartman of Full Metal Jacket fame but frightfully officious for such a subtle spring day. The Officer commanded her troops to do a variety of exercises on the other benches in the cul-de-sac surrounding me including squats, push-ups, and dips, in between doing short running intervals down the path and back with the previously mention baby chariots. What interested me was not the exercise routine or the tight fitting clothing of some reasonably attractive women, rather it was that I was witnessing the transformed entity of the young mother, the one half of the modern day yuppie couple, a creature I have had few encounters with (or so I thought) and who are so vastly different from the mothers I knew when I was a child. So I could not help but wonder what other things existed in the foreign world of the new mom, and since this is to be something resembling an intellectual endeavor, what if anything could I subsequently conclude about parenthood.
A brief search of the Internet revealed that if you are a mommy and have money there are a plethora of options to get fit, have fun, and partake in the new mommy vernacular with other women, infant in tow. The Galaxy theatre offers a 1:00pm movie matinee for “parents with babies”. I was originally going to conduct some old school anthropological field work by attending one of these viewings however I did not because 1) without a child of my own I would have been taken for a creeper as opposed to the man of science I am, 2) I didn’t have a temporary infant available to me to prevent the previous point, 3) they generally have the deal for really shit movies of which I am a harsh critic, and 4) there probably would have been some unjust criticism of the pediatric emergency department along the lines of it taking forever for their child to be seen just to get sent home with a prescription for antibiotics, upon which I would have had no choice but to inform them that a) their wait was a consequence of their own stupidity for bringing the kid to an EMERGENCY department for a runny nose, and that b) they should be glad it wasn’t anything more urgent than that because having your child undergo an IV, lumber puncture, and an in-out urinary catheterization is an ugly experience, after which I would have been escorted out of the theatre by some rent-a-cop covered in orange soda. Thus I will hypothesize the potential observations I could have made.
There would have been much pre-show chatter about how wonderful their infant was, the new things the babe was doing (i.e. vocalizations towards food, riding the cat etc.). There would have been some seriously complicated maneuvers to get their giant infant chariots into the damn theatre. One third of the women would breast feed in the open, one third would breast feed under some outrageous blanket/tent contraption even though the theatre would be dark, the final third would bottle feed, and at least one straggler would totally forget to feed their kid in a desperate attempt to focus on Brad Pitt’s luscious abs and said kid would thus make a racket all through the movie. Some of the parents would bring an older sibling to the movie and thus fail as all parents do at managing multiple children in a public setting that requires silence. I could go on but I better refrain as none of this is supported by actual observation.
My search also revealed mom and baby yoga classes and new mommy chat rooms of minimal interest. What peaked my interest were the infant chariots that now seem to dominate the streets of my fair city this spring. The bloody things are everywhere. I have seen them so large that one mother had to disassemble one wheel in order to get it through the door of my local corner store. It was such an unnecessarily labor intensive and awkward process that I concluded that those chariots are impractical and stupid. But they are fully loaded and contain bells and whistles I never though possible. These infants are so equipped that they could do the Annapurna circuit in winter or traverse the bombed out ruins of Beirut. And not surprising if one has those technological abilities then they have paid the appropriate sum. In a recent conversation with friends that are expecting this summer I expressed my shock and awe at the scale and cost of baby purchases. My mind was subsequently blown away when I was told that they had spent $750 on “little things” for the baby’s room, sans crib. They told me of this baby monitor that has an HD flat screen with digital audio activated by a motion sensor for $319.99 at Babies R Us (the Toys R Us attempt at staying alive in light of the fact that stupid parents are raising stupid children because they buy them electronics instead of toys). I said “seriously, wtf?” and proceeded to down my Strongbow.
Initially I wasn’t sure why I had an interest in people and their babies but when I thought about it I realized that talk of babies and parenting is all around me. Most of the people around me friends or colleagues are married and fully involved in popping out cute, cuddly, wrinkly, eating machines. So could I do the same? I am pretty sure I am more than capable of being a good parent. From my life and work experience I don not find kids scary or mysterious. They are fun, creative, energetic, inspiring, resilient, and happy. Early on if you keep them fed, watered, safe, active, and entertained they are fine. But the longer you have kids the more control you lose over them and the more control you lose over your relationship with your partner.
As kids grow into teenagers they explore the world much to the demise of their parents sanity. To me the hardest part of being a parent would be when your kids are out there in the world making mistakes and there isn’t a damn thing you can do to protect them. There is almost a certainty that your kids will try drugs, drink to the point where they put themselves in dangerous scenarios, have unsafe sex, and subject themselves to emotionally devastating situations, shit I did. These can be the most self-destructive behaviours or they can represent brief periods of exploration with little lasting effect. But for parents there is no way of knowing which way your kids will go and this must kill them. I’ve known good kids to get completely fucked for life from one bad decision. I also have friends who got knocked up as a teenager and turned out to be the most beautiful and brilliant of people. A parent doesn’t want their child to get pregnant at 16 but if they turned out amazing where’s the problem? Subsequently this scenario brings forward another challenge, the idea of children challenging their parent’s morality and worldview, and that is not easy for anybody to deal with especially know-it-alls like myself.
The other issue is that the longer a couple have children and the more children they have the less of a priority the relationship between them becomes in their lives. This could be seen as natural given the limited resources in energy and time parents have when trying to provide the best for their family. I have seen it in full effect. Communication goes by the wayside, individual interests become superseded, and what brought the two people together in the beginning becomes forgotten. In this time of affluence and personal freedom the impetus to stay together for reasons such as finances or support is less of a priority so it is not surprising that many marriages now end when the reason for a relationship between the parents becomes forgotten. This is not to say all relationships end up this way but nearly 50% now do. However, I would say it is almost certain that all marriages experience those stressors that can lead to marriages ending.
So in order for me to address the question “could I be a parent?” really I have to come to terms with “can I watch my child get hurt?” and “can I still love when I have little love left to give?” What scares me is that the answers to these questions is no. Unfortunately the only way to find for sure is to just give it a try. So concerning myself with infant chariots, stupid parenting gadgets, and ridiculous looking people doing ridiculous things with their children is pointless. Each to their own as some wise person once said.