<wednesday march 5, 2003 - 12:45 p.m.>

Yesterday was probably the Worst Day Ever for Sarah. She's normally so happy and easy going. But at several points during the day I wondered if she'd suddenly been possessed or taken over by an alien with a grudge against the human race. She was not herself.

We got equal doses of her temper both in the morning and at night.

In the morning she put up a fight at every possible point. She didn't want to get dressed, didn't want to put her snowsuit on, didn't want to get in the car seat, didn't want to put her shoes on, didn't want to go to daycare, didn't want her nose wiped.

No one was very happy.

And we left her at daycare, all red-faced and hiccuppy. When she gets upset her eyebrows turn beet red. It's a built-in tantrum barometer. It's funny, she's had this ever since she was a newborn.

Afternoon pick-up was about the same, but in reverse. She didn't want to leave, didn't want to put her snowsuit on, didn't want to wear her boots, didn't want to walk to the car, didn't want to get in the carÉ etc etc.

Getting kids into car seats isn't easy, even under the best of circumstances. And when they don't want to go it becomes an impossible task. When their bodies go stiff as a board or turn into a reverse "C" then you might as well give up, or just wait until they're too weak from screaming and crying, but by that time you're just about to have a hemorrhage. This is what we did.

Today was better. Perhaps demon spirit evaporated into the soap bubbles in the bathtub last night. This morning she came into our bed and snuggled happily for awhile. And then she got up, rolled over and bounced on my bladder. Now that's a quick way to wake up.

Monday was my photo class. We're an odd assortment of people, all varying ages, varying skills. These past few weeks we've gotten to know each other quite well. This comes from bumping into each other in the dark. (I accidentally tripped someone last week.) Plus the fact that we spend a lot of time standing around the machine waiting for our prints to magically appear. Conversations just tend to happen.

The topics are just as varied. On Monday we got to talking about height, tall men with short women, short women with tall men etc. Who knows how this started.

One fellow looked at me, pointed at me, "you, must be a model, you're so tall."

I was wearing my chunky heeled boots that make me into an Amazonian 6 ft+. But still...

I was embarrassed by the attention. Everybody was looking at me. And then for some reason I admitted, falsely, that yes, I was indeed a model! Conversation totally stopped. I'm not an ordinary model, but here, look at my feet. I stuck my boot out as if to illustrate. I'm a foot model. See how big my feet are? (As if large feet were a lucrative market for models) Well, if they need a big foot, like a size 10 they call me.

The reaction? Stunned silence from everyone. The fellow who initiated the conversation was at a loss for words. I kept a straight face. I didn't admit I was joking. I walked away.

The "you must be a model" line has been used before, lame as it is. I find it particularly cheap because I don't think I look like a model at all. The only thing that is model-like is the height thing. Anyway, the last time I heard this line was at an Ottawa nightclub in the heyday of my youth. And then, in my tipsyness I admitted to being a bra model for Playtex. Are you familiar with the cross-your-heart bra? Yeah, well those. It's a pretty good gig if you can get it.

andrea.