Greetings from Saskatoon! And just where in the world is Saskatoon, you might ask? Oh, you geographically challenged children. Saskatoon is a lovely Canadian town right smack in the middle of … nowhere. But that’s okay. I had never heard of it either, until someone said I had to be here. I guess no one else was dumb enough to agree to a trip in which sub-freezing temperatures were on the menu.

Apparently, the hunting is good around these parts at this time of year. That seems to be what brought several of my fellow travelers to this remote locale. They even had a special greeter to welcome them with details for obtaining their hunting licenses or paying their hunting taxes or some such thing. I don’t know what they are hunting, though, because surely all the smart creatures are tucked in for the winter, all snug and cozy in hibernation, with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads.

I also must note that Canadian customs was the toughest I’ve ever encountered. They didn’t search my luggage for illegal contraband, but they positively grilled me on the reason for my visit, down to the minutest details like who I was doing business with and what exactly I meant by "conducting a training session" and just when I was planning to get out and quit tarnishing their country with my presence. Okay, so they didn’t say that last part exactly like that, but it sure seemed like it was what they were thinking, what with the third degree and all. Cuz I know I look like such a troublemaker with a secret terrorist, or maybe drug smuggling, agenda.

But none of these things are the reasons I set out to write this particular blog post. What I want to tell you about is the interesting cloud formation I witnessed during the plane’s descent through Canadian airspace. As we began our approach into Saskatoon on this gray and dreary day, the plane sliced right through the solid layer of clouds beneath us. Nothing unusual about that; that’s what planes do as they prepare to land. What I found curious is that after we emerged from that layer of clouds, there was ANOTHER parallel layer of clouds further below. A flat layer of clouds above us as far as the eye could see, and an identical flat layer spanning out below us, with our plane gliding through open air sandwiched right in the middle. I’m sure there’s a meteorological explanation for the phenomenon, but I don’t recall ever noticing such a cloud pattern in flight before. I was fascinated.

That’s all. No earth shattering revelations. Just an interesting observation for today, eh?

Today, boys and girls, we take a brief time out from normal blogging for a little lesson in punctuation. Today, I’m going to educate you about the underutilized mark known as the em dash. Never to be confused with the lowly hyphen.

Folks, way too many people out there are using a hyphen or two (like this – or this –) when they mean an em dash (like this —) or maybe its cousin, the en dash (like this –).

So what is an em dash and why should you care? Humor me for a moment while I explain the difference. Then I’m going to teach you how to create these misunderstood punctuation marks for yourself.

A hyphen (-) is the smallest dash, except that technically, it’s not a dash at all. The hyphen, as it is accurately called, is used for compound words, to hyphenate words at line breaks, and to separate strings of numbers that don’t represent a range, such as your phone number (800-555-1234) or social security number (123-45-6789). Or you might use it when spelling out a word, like h-y-p-h-e-n. That’s pretty much it. Just about any other use of this key on your keyboard is incorrect, typographically speaking.

An en dash (–) is slightly longer than a hyphen. Often the same width as the letter N, to be exact. Hence the name “en” dash. It is generally used to connect ranges of numbers or related text. If you can substitute the word “to” in place of the dash, an en dash is your correct choice. For example, you would use an en dash for:

• pages (pp. 28–35)
• dates (Monday–Friday; November 2–5)
• times (8:00 a.m.–5:00 p.m.)
• Bible verses (Matthew 28:18–20)
• a relationship between two locations (New York–Los Angeles flight)
• sports scores, vote counts, and other number relationships (we won 27–2)

Sometimes the en dash can even be used instead of a hyphen, but consult your handy dandy reference manual for the precise rules around this. This blog post is not titled “The mighty mighty en dash,” after all—though there is a correctly used example of en dash as hyphen within this post, if you can spot it. In any case, only the punctuation nazis (that might be me) are going to notice if you sneak in a hyphen where an en dash is required. I’ve been known to do it myself, out of sheer laziness.

An em dash (—) is the longest dash, the width of the letter—say it with me—M. My beloved em dash is a super comma of sorts. It sets off a thought or phrase within your sentence in a way that is stronger than a comma, less severe than a colon or semi-colon, and less interruptive to your flow than parentheses. It’s not right for every parenthetical or explanatory thought—or even most such thoughts—but it has its place in the annals of punctuation. And it’s been overlooked by far too many people.

But that’s okay, you deprived non–em dash users. You have a good excuse. Do you even know how to create an em dash on your keyboard? I didn’t think so. Not many people do, unless they are power em dash users like me. You really have to love the em dash to go to all the trouble of adding one to your document. Lucky for you, I’m going to show you how. It turns out that our good friend Bill Gates has given us a few cumbersome, but not too difficult to remember, ways to do this.

By now, the observant ones among you are asking, “But what happens when I’m not using Word?” I feel your pain, fellow bloggers. I feel your pain. Like right now, for instance, as I write this blog in an application not dreamed up by the fine minds of Microsoft. Friends, now you know. For every em dash you have ever viewed on this website, I have painstakingly typed out the arcane combination of Alt+0151 (Alt+0150 for the en dashes). It was not easy, but for you, I have committed these cryptic numbers to memory.

Why do I bother, you might ask? True, it’s hard to be pro em dash in a blogging world, but I’m sticking to my guns. I care because I’m a perfectionist. Case in point: I have a friend who told me recently that she’s never seen a typo in my blog. Ever. While that’s giving me more credit than I deserve (but go ahead and try to find a typo that hasn’t already been found and corrected by me, I double dog dare you—a prize might be involved for whomever finds one first), I AM a stickler for the rules. Allowing for creative license, of course.

And also because I happen to like the beauty of the em dash. Two hyphens? Well, that’s just ugly. It’s fractured punctuation in need of repair.

A final thought on the em dash before I depart the subject. The use of spaces surrounding the em dash is often considered a matter of stylistic preference. My reference of choice, The Chicago Manual of Style, 15th edition, says no to a space between the em dash and the surrounding words. Others say differently. It’s up to you—just be consistent with whatever you choose. Your readers will thank you.

In our household, that bodily organ known to the rest of the English speaking world as the brain, will forevermore be referred to as the "thinking thingy."

Someone’s "thinking thingy" apparently malfunctioned and could not retrieve its own identity, but the "thinking thingy’s" owner (a certain eight-year-old who shall remain nameless, to protect the guilty) is no slouch when it comes to improvisation. 

Do you suppose Roget’s would be interested if I submitted this for consideration as a thesaurus entry? 

The velvet door rope might have been the first indication that this was no ordinary birthday party. The bouncer checking names against the VIP list before granting entry was likely the second clue. This celebration, after all, was an important affair, held in honor of the fact that Maia has reached the ripe old age of eight.

Really, who DOESN’T turn their living room into an invitation-only dance club for their daughter’s eighth birthday?

Those lucky enough to pass muster with the bouncer (dad) and bearing the appropriate cover charge (a birthday gift in fanciful wrapping) gained exclusive admittance into the newly monikered “Club Maia.” These privileged entrants were so acknowledged with a “Girls Rule” hand stamp, to distinguish them from any uninvited riffraff—like three-year-old brothers—who might have the audacity to sneak in. They then made their way to the first stop, the beauty station, to be decked out with stick-on body jewelry and glitter hairspray. The second stop on the dance party circuit was the photo station, for a photo op with the dimpled birthday girl herself. Each girl had her picture professionally snapped with Maia against a tasseled purple backdrop, rimmed with rope lighting. At least it looked like professional photography, with the camera mounted on a tripod and all.

The bouncer, ever alert, checked his headset throughout the afternoon for news of possible disturbances to quell. To his great disappointment, there were none. The guests respectfully honored the “staff only” signs designating backstage areas deemed off limits to them, and no celebrity catfights erupted between girls soused on strawberry-kiwi flavored Capri Sun. But there was no time to lament the limited need for ejecting troublemakers from rowdy scenes of commotion, because the bouncer had a second job. He doubled as the DJ, spinning tunes from a playlist populated exclusively by Disney Channel and American Idol artists, while the guest of honor demonstrated that her years of dance training have been fruitful as she led the choreography on the dance floor.

Meanwhile, the club manager/photographer (mom) rushed to develop the prints of the arrival fan photo shoots, because this party was about more than just Hip Hop and Hilary Duff and Clay Aiken. The guests needed to have a souvenir of the experience, so they adjourned to the neighboring art studio (the back porch) for instruction in making their own personalized magnet picture frames. But what good is a frame without a picture to put in it? As luck would have it, in addition to an art studio, this amazing multi-functional dance club also boasts an in-house darkroom. Otherwise known as the inkjet photo printer.

Following the dancing and crafts and the requisite cake and presents, the guests chose to chill in the private VIP Lounge (a.k.a. Maia’s bedroom) while awaiting their chauffeurs to transport them home. Access to the lounge was via a new beaded curtain veiling the doorway. Probably to keep out paparazzi like me.

I think the party was a hit. How will we ever top this next year?

Why do so many people always want to find the reasons why you can’t do something instead of looking for ways that you can?

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How in the world am I supposed to get a post-tonsillectomy three-year-old to drink 40 ounces of fluid per day? He doesn’t even drink that much when he’s well.

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Why do I keep up our subscription to Blockbuster Online when we don’t watch movies often enough for the service to pay for itself?

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How can someone who always has been, and professes to still be, awkwardly shy, be such a motor mouth at times? Sometimes I’m paralyzed by having nothing to say, and other times I can’t shut up.

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When am I ever going to master the art of patience? I think I have gotten worse, not better, as I have gotten older. I want one of those unflappable demeanors for Christmas this year.

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What’s wrong with Friday the 13th? I’m not scared. Bring it on!

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Is football season good for blogging? In my case, it just might be. Our TV is always commandeered by ESPN lately, which ought to give me more time to write. And looking back, some of my best entries from last year were written during football season. Stay tuned… I’m gunning for a repeat performance.

"Ahzaba yada Ducky," He slurred unintelligibly, as he gazed happily at me from la-la land with the sloppy grin of a falling down drunk.

There was no question about it. My three-year-old son was the new poster child for what it means to be feeling no pain.

But wait, it’s not what you think! As it happens, Noah was in the hospital’s outpatient surgery wing, being prepped to have his tonsils removed. The pre-surgical cocktail was really a sedative intended to keep him calm and ooze him into drowsiness in advance of the real anesthesia. It worked; he was certainly a happy little man.

He was also more than a little woozy. My comedian son decided AFTER the Versed had been administered that a trip to the potty was in order. The boy could not have stood on his own two feet to save his life, so I dutifully carried him down the hall to the nearest bathroom, trying as best I could to protect his modesty in the skimpy hospital gown. Then I had to hold him upright to do the job. Otherwise he would have plunged face first into the toilet, and somehow I don’t think he would have cared one bit!

But have YOU ever tried to hold up a floppy (and heavy) three-year-old at the potty while at the same time trying to direct his aim and simultaneously keep him from dropping Ducky in? Because there was no parting Noah from Ducky. Yet due to the cocktail, he wasn’t exactly holding on to him with a death grip. Ducky was in real danger, I tell you. Barney (clad by attentive nurses in a hospital gown and wristband of his own) too, for that matter.

Somehow, we managed. Nothing got sprinkled that wasn’t supposed to, and thanks to a Hurculean effort on my part, neither Ducky nor Barney touched any icky public bathroom surfaces. 

It was also at this point when I realized why the hospital gown seemed so cruelly skimpy. I had missed one of the ties in the back. I decided to fix the problem immediately, before parading Noah back down the hall. But because he was loopy and droopy and not at all in a condition conducive to staying upright without assistance, ingenuity was required. I started out by squatting down on the floor and balancing him precariously on my knee to find the other half of the tie. Not good enough. Lacking magical abilities (super powers notwithstanding), there was no way only two hands could keep Noah, Ducky, and Barney off the floor AND tie the gown. I don’t know about you, but I have not yet mastered the fine art of fastening barely there hospital gowns with just one free hand. So I shifted over until I could prop Noah’s shoulder against the wall, with one leg unsteadily extended to catch him if he fell forward. It took a few tries but we did get the gown properly adjusted, barely.

After all that effort, I’m not sure it helped. Did I mention that hospital gowns are just evil? But anyone who is familiar with my clumsy ways (and if you aren’t, you can read about some of my hall of shame tumbles here and here) can now marvel at the fact that I didn’t topple over and mortally injure us both.

On finally returning to the pre-surgical staging area, all dry and in one piece, we discovered that even in his drunken state, Noah still has a pitcher’s arm. Just as we were sitting down, Ducky went airborne. He who could barely even hold on to Ducky two minutes earlier had, without warning, hurled him across the room. All the while with that same goofy, tipsy grin. Noah looked at that moment like he was living the Barney theme song, in an inebriated sort of way:

"I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family…" 

It seemed inappropriate to laugh, considering that the little guy was about to be put under for surgery, but really, how could you not laugh at such a sight? 

They kicked us out of the hospital practically as soon as Noah woke up, and he has been resting comfortably at home all day, sleeping off whatever drugs they gave him to knock him out. A very different experience from when Maia went through the same a few years ago. I’ll never forget her singing Hakuna Matata in the car on the way home. From having her TONSILS out. Her throat was supposed to hurt! She never did go back to sleep that day. Instead, she threw a tantrum because she wanted to play baseball outside with Daddy and we wouldn’t let her, being still under the effects of anesthesia and all.

So Noah is doing as well as can be expected, living on chocolate milk. Poor guy, though… the anesthesia and the surgical morphine have pretty much worn off now, and we can tell his throat is really starting to hurt. He’s a trooper, but he didn’t want to eat anything for dinner. Not even ice cream or chocolate pudding or popsicles. He just sat there, not complaining, but with a quivering lip and a single tear rolling down his cheek.

Maybe laughing wasn’t so appropriate after all.

This past week, Maia was on fall break from school, so we took advantage of the opportunity for a little family vacation. It is no secret in my family that housekeeping is not exactly my forte, but prior to our departure on Monday, I did the unthinkable. I actually straightened up around the house. I was still decluttering even as my husband and kids were already loaded into the car, eager to get started toward our seafaring destination.

I did not realize what a shock it would be for my children to see our home in a relatively clutter-free state until we returned to the scene yesterday morning. Noah’s immediate reaction upon entering the living room was to exclaim, "Ama and Aitachu cleaned the house!" Ama and Aitachu (Basque for mother and father) are what my kids call my parents. I tried to explain to Noah that actually, his Daddy and I had done the cleaning. But he still insisted it was Ama and Aitachu. Our clean house could not register in his brain any other way. My son could not wrap his little mind around the fact that the people who inhabit this dwelling might actually tidy it up once in a while.

Woe is me. I have been setting a terrible example, haven’t I??

Life on the road stinks. I miss my family! But free wi-fi is a nice perk, as I sit here in the hotel lobby waiting for my ride to the airport. It’s almost better than being at the office, since I can catch up without interruption. So my email has been answered, and I find myself with a few minutes to spare. One of these days I may even make time to write something profoundly witty and interesting. I miss writing in this blog, dear readers. I really do. I have the ideas, it’s just a matter of devoting time and brain power to transforming them into entries worth reading. I have every intention of getting back on the blog circuit as soon as it is humanly possible. That’s a promise. I still have lots of stories left in me to document for my kids. ‘Til then, happy travels to me.

Maia and her Daddy may have a daily morning ritual, but Noah and I have one of our own. Every morning before going off to daycare, I get the best, and I mean THE BEST, hugs. Noah is at his snuggliest in the mornings, willing to let me hold him for an extended cuddle while he simultaneously rests his head on my shoulder and pats my back. How could anyone not love such a sweet and affectionate little boy?

I have to cherish these moments while they last, because Noah is growing up on us. He can write his name now, and he drew his first family picture last week. And he’s losing the baby pudge. My round little baby is getting so lean! He’s not allowed to grow up. He’s just not! I wish all kids could stay this age forever. It’s my very favorite.

Maia has always been a Daddy’s girl. Small wonder… he has a bit of kid in him himself and makes a great playmate. He does all kinds of fun things with her. I make her do her homework and clean her room.

Maia and Daddy have a special routine they perform every morning. When Kent leaves the house to drop Noah at daycare, he checks to make sure the front door is locked. Then after he’s strapped Noah into his carseat, he walks around to check it again, from the outside. And every day, like clockwork, Maia is standing just inside the door waiting for him. While Kent wiggles and jiggles and rattles the door to make sure the lock is just as secure as it was on the inside, testing its ability to withstand attempted break ins, Maia waves to him through the window and recites the same thing, every single day. "Bye Daddy, I love you Daddy, have a good day at work Daddy." I doubt he can hear her through the closed door, but she says it anyway. Every. Single. Day.

Last night at Maia’s dance class, I bumped into a parent whose daughter is in Maia’s class at school. She had a story she had been waiting to tell me. It seems that one day a week or two ago, this parent was at school helping in her other daughter’s class, when she bumped into Maia in the hallway. Maia was crying her little heart out all the way down the hall. The mother, being concerned that something tragic must have happened, asked Maia what was wrong. Maia’s response? She had had a fight with her Daddy that morning and forgot to kiss him goodbye. My sensitive daughter was heartbroken because she didn’t kiss her Daddy goodbye.

She gets it from Kent. My husband the family man never, and I mean never, leaves the house without kissing us all and telling us he loves us. I’ve pointed out to him a couple of times that he acts like he’ll never see us again. He says you never know. And you know what? It’s true. You just never know when this time might be the last time you’ll have an opportunity to show your loved ones that you care. And besides, it’s always nicer to part, even just for a quick outing of errands, on sweet terms rather than sour ones.

It’s amazing what you can learn from a 7-year-old and her beloved Daddy.