Nearly six years ago, I was dutifully employed in a permanent, full-time teaching position at a school less than 25 minutes from my home. I had benefits and a pretty good salary. I had two young children, an enormous monthly day care bill, hefty out-of-pocket disability-related expenses for my son, and a ginormous mortgage because I just needed to own a house in midtown Toronto. But I woke up one day and decided I immediately needed to quit my job.

Once the idea presented itself, it was all I could think about. It haunted me. I thought about it while cooking dinner, while reading my kids their bedtime stories, while corralling up my students at the end of gym class. I thought about it on the crowded streetcar (heck, especially on the streetcar) and while driving to get groceries at 10 pm on a weeknight.

So I did. I quit. I told my principal I would not be returning in September. It seemed too easy! I didn’t have a plan. Well, I sort of had a plan. But I had no idea how to execute said plan.

At the time, my sister-in-law had recently completed a 10-week intensive, web developer bootcamp in downtown Toronto. She had started her first part-time, contract job. She was employed! In addition to being ecstatically proud of her (I’m still proud!), another idea crept in: Maybe I could do that too.

I had some experience with HTML and CSS from about a million years prior while working at my first “real” office job — a non-profit that ran an annual conference each year. Through this event, many smaller roles blossomed. I edited, designed, and curated content for the conference program. I chose colours and font sizes for signage. I decided how the registration site should look and feel. I negotiated with other organizations for media partnerships. I edited code. Some days, I also answered phones and took out the garbage.

But I had this million (okay, maybe 10) year gap where I “only taught.” I was slightly unsure of how my secret past as a teacher might help fuel my potential future as a developer. My accomplishments were nothing to be shy about — I taught Calculus, Chemistry and Biology to high school students, and later, special education to middle-school kids. It wasn’t easy. It required the ability to learn new things on a daily basis, and more importantly, the ability to say “I don’t quite know the answer to that question, but I’ll look it up and get back to you”. It required willful patience and a positive-fucking-attitude at all times, including days when I just wanted to cry under my desk.

But I was completely stuck with how to frame that past experience as a positive thing. How does someone actually transition away from teaching towards — well, anything else?

TO BE CONTINUED

Coding tests are a big source of frustration for developers. When I started out as a developer in 2016, my very first coding test was, I sh*t you not, a 30-minute refactor of a React application. (Yes, the test was TIMED). And this wasn’t a simple project, oh no, it was a checkout form involving taxes and multiplication and scary ES5 syntax and when I submitted it back 30 minutes later, I sent a blank email with

Super unprofessional, I know, but so was that test. I asked a more experienced developer what she thought. Her response: ‘wow, nobody could actually do this. I guess they are trying to gauge how fast you can type?”

But don’t worry, folks. I was able to eventually crack into the developer world. Since January 2017 I’ve worked at 3 start-ups, including my current job. I would like to think I’m an ‘okayish’ developer now, meaning I can build things and write tests and fix bugs and contribute to our documentation. I think I can emphatically say that my very first coding test, aka the React-100-m-dash, did not accurately reflect my potential.

My second coding test was a bit different. It was a set of four straightforward algorithms using an online coding test platform, and the cool part was that I received a score immediately after each question. (Hello Feedback ❤️!) The test had a 12 hour time limit, so as a mother of 2 kids with a full-time job, I had to be strategic as to when to start the test. Pulling an all-nighter would be ideal, but would never work in my situation. I decided to start the test at 8 pm, thinking I could wake up at 6 am if necessary. After completing 2 out of the 4 questions and getting 100% on both (YAY), my then-2-year-old daughter woke up screaming with a fever and an ear infection (NAY). I attempted to complete the test while letting her sleep on my shoulder, which sounds kind of oddly peaceful to those without children but is in fact, the opposite. I was unable to complete the last question, and received a sadly typical, but polite, canned response the next day confirming my rejection.

Let’s talk about who might succeed on the test I have described: this person would need a reliable internet connection, a few hours of uninterrupted time, and a quiet place at home to work. The successful candidate would likely not have caregiving responsibilities, and would not be relying on using the public library’s internet to complete the test. They would likely not be sharing an apartment with three other people, have a second or third part-time job working nights at a coffee shop, nor would they be sharing internet with four other families on their floor. They would likely not be sitting up all night with a sick baby, or have to step up and take an elderly grandparent to the ER in the middle of the night.

In other words, this test was biased towards financially stable people with minimal familial responsibilities.

When I voiced my concerns to the hiring manager, I was politely told there was “simply no other way to do the test.” They also asked if the expectations were clear, which I thought was a bit insulting, since I wasn’t confused about the test itself. This seems to be a common theme whenever I offer feedback to hiring managers with regards to coding tests. The conversation goes something like:

Me: “Your test is biased because of A, B, C.”

Test giver: “Oh were the instructions not clear?”

Me: “No thank you, I understand how to do the test..”

Test giver: “Well it should only take 30 minutes max so I guess you aren’t smart enough, goodbye forever!”

Coding tests are inherently bad. They are broken. But things can change. If you work in tech, speak to the person who administers the test. Examine the expectations for anything that might be biased towards a certain demographic (cough cough, single white men, cough).

Does your start-up’s coding test fail the tests below?

1. The level of complexity surpasses what the actual day-to-day developer tasks might look like. (I’m looking at you, determine how many dots exist in a pentagonal shape around a centre dot on the Nth iteration ). I have been asked more times than I can remember how to reverse a goddamned string. Have I done this in real life yet? Nopity nope nope. This is a trend that desperately needs to stop, because it discourages candidates who come from non-traditional educational backgrounds. In other words, many of us do not have computer science degrees, not because we are lazy and gross, but because we are victims of a system that inherently denies opportunities to certain demographics. (I promise, there will be another blog post coming soon: My Grade 12 Physics Teacher Said Girls Were Better Suited to Study Biology and That’s Why I Have a Biology Degree and Not a Computer Science Degree SORRY)
2. Offering unsuitable timeframes to complete the test. Emailing a test on a Friday night and asking for a completed response Monday morning is not acceptable. A person who works a second job on the weekend would have to pull an all-nighter to get that done. I think 7-10 days is a perfectly acceptable turnaround time for a coding test.
3. Not offering a choice. I have yet to see a coding test where I’m sent perhaps 5 questions, and have to complete 3, meaning I have a choice based on what I know best. I would nearly die of happiness. Offering choice gives power back to the candidate. It increases their confidence and sets them up for success.
4. Expecting the candidate to have unlimited access to high-speed internet. Yet another thing I have yet to see in the tech world is asking the candidate if they require internet access. Why not offer a quiet space in the corner of your huge lofty start-up for 2–3 hours?
5. Creating a test that a candidate can’t use on their personal portfolio. I am quite lucky in that I’ve had several tests that have made great portfolio pieces. These are usually the ones that involve some level of personalization, for example, create an app that does A, B, and C using the language and framework of your choice.
6. Offering a test that is not engaging. I hate that I even need to mention this, but please create tests that will excite a developer’s brain. If I see one more test that reads like an 8-point Jira ticket I will scream. As candidates, we shouldn’t feel like we are being taken advantage of by ‘working for free.’ And as much as I love solving front-end UI/UX problems, there’s only so many “use our API to display data” type questions I can handle before feeling like I’m living in a real-world Groundhog Day. I would love to see more back-end scripts for full-stack coding tests, simply because they are engaging and interesting and NEW. Bonus points for making the script applicable to your start-up’s particular product.
7. Not providing clear instructions. Some managers like to purposely make the test tricky by leaving out information. This is so wrong, on so many levels. The developer needs to have a fair chance at solving the problem. A good project manager wouldn’t just let a new developer work on a feature without specific and clear expectations; why would we allow a candidate to do the same in the context of a coding test?

There are plenty of opportunities to increase diversity in the workplace; we are, unfortunately, collectively doing a shitty job of doing this in tech right now (hands up if you are the only female-identifying developer on your team 🙋).

Why not start by re-examining the first thing your company shares with candidates, the thing that has the potential to make your team go from great to awesome? Why not give every candidate a fair chance to make your product the fantastic thing it needs to be?

Do you have any other ideas to reduce bias in tests that gauge technical ability? Please take a second to share in the comments 😊.

Does your start-up have a diversity problem? Perhaps you have a coding test problem. was originally published in Code Like A Girl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I often forget that I am 39.9 years old. I may go a few hours without looking in the mirror, and feel all young and cute and thin and then I go to the washroom and — bam! Grey hair, wrinkles, rosacea, and a strange neck ‘change’ that happened overnight. I see my stomach, the official first home for my kids, and then I see some weird stuff happening with the skin above my cleavage and I immediately picture myself in a long-term care facility.

When I speak with the younger people in my office, I often catch myself referring to things only a 39-year-old will understand: a 13-hour techno party for Y2K; binge-watching 6 Feet Under three times while unemployed in the early aughts, fun-fur vests. These younger people are always so polite, nodding heads and making eye contact and probably thinking about how lucky they are to live in a time when one doesn’t have to camp out in front of a payphone in the middle of downtown Orlando because someone lost the hand-written directions to a friend’s timeshare condo.

My general thoughts on aging are: it’s cool! It’s fine! Totally okay. I like to assume I get along with the younger folk (save for forcing my eloquent soliloquies on them) and as for anyone older than me, I politely avoid reminding them how old they are, even if it means resisting the urge to point at a bottle of Witeout while asking, “what IS this?”

I have become more conscious of age as a potential source of shame since deciding to just up and switch careers at the slightly ripe age of 38. I was the oldest person in a web development bootcamp by at least 10 years, which is quite an awful feeling that I highly recommend you never try sometime.

This self-consciousness escalated after attending a presentation at a trendy startup, designed to help junior web developers find their footing in the field. When the main presenter began his presentation, I was instantly captivated. He was funny, showing a picture of a dorky 12-year old boy sitting in front of a monitor bigger than my car. He ‘seemed’ to be about my age, casually dropping references about Toronto in the 90s and early 2000s.

My presenter — let’s call him Hal — started making subtle references about his age.

“I remember coding when HTML 2.0 was a thing!”

“I went to raves when they were just called “parties”!”

“I was a DJ before I became a web developer!”

And then Hal, out of the blue, casually dropped how old he actually was. It was awkward, because nobody asked him.

“I am SO old. I am an old man! Guys, I’m THIRTY-TWO.”

Hal probably had a shitty morning. Hal most likely forgot to go to the ATM before dropping into his local cash-only coffee place. Hal may have had a boring pre-lunch meeting with the VP of marketing in which there wasn’t even a single almond croissant in the room. Hal most likely designed his own baby racoon emoji but Dave from software beat him to it and Hal was sad.

I often say to my son that people “make bad choices” instead of “that dude is bad.” When Hal sat down to create a powerpoint for a group of employment-hungry web developers, he made some bad choices. I suppose he assumed one of two things might happen as a result of his ageist humblebrags:
1) the younger-than-hims would marvel at his youthful glow (maybe we can look that awesome too when we are elderly?) and line up enthusiastically to touch his arm;
2) the older-than-hims, like myself, would be shocked at his accomplishments (so many things in so little time! amazing!) before finishing with some gawking: “Are you for real shut up you aren’t even old!”

Hal feels great, but it’s a cheap type of greatness. Hal chose to describe his accomplishments — and there is nothing wrong with that —but he did so while performing an effusive “I’m so old” dance around the room. Would he have performed this dance after considering the possibility that there were people in the audience who were older than 32? Has Hal ever met anyone older than 32, and if so, did he gallantly carry them up the stairs or insist on putting them to bed at 7:45pm?

I wonder how actual aged, disabled, or sick people might feel knowing he referred to his seemingly healthy 32-year-old body as “old.” I had many questions for Hal, but he didn’t allot any time for questions.

Hal moved on to more pressing issues.

He finished his powerpoint with some non-work related photos of himself: Hal at the beach, Hal on a plane, Hal eating a bowl of pho. His final photo had contact info — Linkedin, email, Twitter — pasted over a black and white photo of him and his girlfriend sitting on opposite ends of an impossibly long sofa at home, both staring intently into individual laptops.

“Just me and my girlfriend working from home.”

The audience gasped. Someone near me muttered that is so fucking cool.

As I left the room, the former teacher in me wondered what happened to make Hal such a vulnerable and sad person. I wanted to gently grab his arm and whisper, it’s going to be okay. And as all self-doubting, nearly-middle-aged female web developers are prone to do, I immediately questioned my own reactions: Why didn’t I think his weird couch portrait was cool? Who actually took that photo? Why did it make me feel like barfing or sticking my hand on a hot barbeque?

I went home to my husband and two kids: our tiny brown couch was covered in crackers from their afternoon snack; a milk stain had been festering on the carpet since breakfast. My left hip hurt from an emerging flare-up of the ankylosing spondilitis that has haunted me for 10 years, and the carpel tunnel in my right forearm had furiously kicked in.

But at least I’m not 32.

When a 32-year-old man tells a 39-year-old woman that he is old was originally published in Code Like A Girl on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I live in Toronto, home of the Hospital for Sick Children, more often affectionately referred to as “Sick Kids.” Over the past year, our local children’s hospital has become social-media-famous and inarguably, regular-media-famous, with the release of a ground-breaking, award-winning ad campaign championed by the SickKids Foundation, the powerful fundraising branch of the hospital.

The first commercial, called SickKids VS: Undeniable, was released in October 2016. It depicts children as disease-fighting warriors, going into battle with their prosthetic arms, dialysis machines, and wheelchairs.

At the end of the ad, I see a mountain of discarded wheelchairs, and a girl standing victoriously on top. As if it were a pile of trash. And then I look at my son’s tiny wheelchair, the one he will most likely use for the rest of his life.

My very own son is sick, and he isn’t necessarily fighting anything, other than his little sister every day during every single meal/moment/interaction. He was born with a genetic difference that has reeked a bit of havoc with his bone development. The condition is rare, as in ‘one-in-six-billion or so’ rare, since his is the only documented case on the planet. He has chronic lung disease and weak femurs that tend to break quite easily. He will have these problems for the rest of his life.

There is no cure; we aren’t “fighting” anything per se, only living with and accepting his wheelchair, walker, and BiPAP machine as essential facets in the routine of his daily life, much like multi-vitamins for healthy kids. The only things we actively fight are negative stereotypes towards those with disabilities.

The exact same stereotypes this ad campaign helps to perpetuate.

Much has already been published about the rampant ableism in these ads. Louise Kinross, a mother of a boy with a rare genetic disorder, points out that all the children in the ad appear “normal”, with no obvious congenital deformities. She notes: “Are the kids who live with permanent disabilities or chronic illnesses, or who die from their condition, not “undeniable” enough? The word “defeat” flashes during the video. Does that mean some kids “surrender?”

But these commercials aren’t only ableist with regards to children and their disabilities, they are damaging and negligent towards the mental health of caregivers of these children, the exact same people who need to correctly navigate a lonely and often confusing path. The same people who are more likely to require mental health support.

If you watch the commercial, you will see a child on a surgical table who, based on the beeping sounds, has appeared to flatline. The paddles are placed on his chest, while the background music pauses briefly. The scene is edgy, flashy. The medical term for what you are watching is a “resuscitation” or in slangy ER-terms, a “resus.”

If you ever have to meet your partner and your child at the hospital, and the nurse quickly leads you into the ‘Resus Room’, you can safely conclude that things could not possibly be any worse, though they won’t actually indicate this at the time. The room was a mystery to me until my son suffered a cardiac arrest and lung failure, and I watched the resuscitation process with a mixture of nausea and surprise — all he had was a cold virus! — and there was definitely, absolutely, nothing edgy or flashy about it. It makes me unbelievably uncomfortable to know that a scene out there in a casual commercial mirrors my own traumatic experience.

I currently have — obviously — PTSD, as a result of a handful of moments inside my local children’s hospital which felt, cumulatively, like someone had stolen my heart, deep-fried it, and then held it above my head to tease me like a childhood bully. We had some rough years. We had many conversations that didn’t end with good news, that ended with the worst possible news a parent might hear: There’s nothing else we can do; enjoy the time you have left. As if that would ever be an actual possibility.

Right now, my son’s health is no longer a life-and-death situation. Instead of fussing over oxygen saturations and signs of respiratory failure, I stress over whether he will eat that new pasta I bought, or if he will make it to school on time when snow pant season hits. Regular parenting stuff.

But I’m not one who’s quick to forget.

The rescus scene in the Sick Kids commercial was part of a major campaign that won multiple awards. It was celebrated in the creative community. Somebody put up their hand in a meeting and pitched this idea and it was accepted. It was applauded, revered. Somebody took home a trophy for deciding to recreate the worst moment of my life. Of many parent’s lives. I hope that trophy is ugly, or at least clashes with their colour scheme.

The next commercial in the campaign, SickKids VS: MomStrong, came out in April 2016, right before Mother’s Day. The concept is simple: mothers of sick children are crying; they cover their tears once they see their children in an effort to appear “strong.” They are selfless, they are brave, they are wonderful and beautiful humans. I love these women. I am these women.

What I can’t accept is how this ad completely ignores the mental health of caregivers. Shove it down, put it aside, be strong, put on a smile was my mantra for nearly 5 years, until I just couldn’t anymore. I had one of my biggest panic attacks this past spring while a nurse tried to put an IV in my son’s hand, a procedure I have been ‘strong’ for and have done with him over a hundred times. In the world of the chronically ill, an IV is considered a low-stress situation.

But I couldn’t do it. Through incoherent sobs, I begged the nurses to just send us home, as if sending home children with acute pneumonia is a regular thing nurses do all the time. I had to lie down on the hospital floor while they took vitals. And for the first time, my son witnessed all the shit I had been keeping safely trapped. Gone was my famous fake smile and transparent slogan: “it’s fine!” He saw me at my worst.

While lying on that floor, I thought about the commercial, and how I wasn’t anything like the commercial, and how I struggled for so long to be my version of the ideal hospital mom. The perfect, poised, eloquent woman who doesn’t flinch at the sight of blood or sutures or exposed bone. The one who seems to do it so effortlessly. But I do flinch, and I’m terrified of blood, and I can’t even discuss ear infections with my mom friends without spiralling into thoughts about early-onset hearing loss.

I feel guilty complaining about this, I mean, come on! Isn’t the intent here to raise money for the exact same hospital where my son receives his care? Am I biting the hand that feeds him, those wonderful hands that put metal rods into his bones every few years?

The ‘dad’ version of the commercial came out a month later, just in time for Father’s Day. A father is seen going to work during the day and then coming to the hospital at night. Because that’s what men do — they are strong and they install drywall or light fixtures even though they may just happen to have a dying kid on their hands.

The dad in the commercial never cries. In the world of SickKids marketing, one rule is clear: Crying is performed exclusively by mothers, under rigidly controlled circumstances, where nobody will ever see her, and nobody will ever have to ask what’s wrong.

Setting aside the infuriating gender-biased problems of these commercials for a moment, I wonder about the impact this could have on parents who are going through this for the first time. These scenarios don’t feature panic attacks, or yelling at your kid or random strangers on the subway. They don’t feature dads showing raw emotion. They don’t feature moms lying down in the office bathroom every morning muttering get it together over and over.

There is no doubt that this campaign was successful. A few years ago, I would have defended the ads: You take things too seriously, is probably what I would have told myself, It’s just a commercial.

I think about my son seeing these ads when he’s older. How confused he might be to see a pile of wheelchairs and crutches disguised as a mountain of garbage, used as a representation of “winning” and “defeating” disease. He will see the mothers crying and the dads going to work, keeping their emotions in check.

He will see this unrealistic portrayal of disability as a game, one that doesn’t mirror his own life. And I fear that he will think he’s lost that game.

“No thanks, buddy!” I catch his eyes, and then place the iPad back on his lap. “Mama has to listen to the doctor now.”

My son’s eyes dart between us, then focus back on his Elmo app. I wait for his face to have a minimally engaged glaze before turning back to the surgeon.

“Can you explain that again?”

I think it’s the third time I’ve said this. I already understand what the surgeon is telling me. There’s a technique — which I invented, thank you very much — that involves pleading ignorance when I’m faced with bad news from a doctor. I’ve perfected this technique, as I’ve had lots of practice, and because it allows my brain a few minutes to catch up with the heart. The heart is always first to react.

Right now, my brain is repeating the surgeon’s words: he needs another cast, but my heart is painting a picture of six more weeks of crawling, of being carried up and down stairs, of my son being pissed off on a daily basis that he can’t go in the kiddie pool. And then there’s the whole “not walking” thing.

He used to walk. A few months before he turned four, I watched his first steps during a physiotherapy session. We knew it was going to be “the” day, and I made sure I was prepared, creating room on my phone for a copious amount of video. I remember his shaky gait as he started with a few small steps, the therapist’s hands hovering close to his hips.

He stopped, swatting her hands away. “On my own!”

And so he walked — on his own.

Last summer we became happily overloaded with unexpected firsts. He opened tall cupboards. He took out every piece of plastic from a shelf in the pantry, moving them to create a tower in the living room. He walked in our garden for the first time, stopping and bending over to pick up old leaves and dead bugs, collecting them for daddy when he came home from work.

He walked on his own for about four months, and then, after fighting over a toy with his younger sister, he fell in an unfortunate way. He twisted his body on the way down, fracturing the left femur and prompting the surgeon to operate only three months later. We had accepted the cycle of breaking a bone and then having surgery to fix it as an intrinsic part of his genetic condition. But it still sucked.

Now he’s almost five and I’m listening to a surgeon tell me he’s about to have another full-leg cast for another month. The last surgery didn’t quite work. After five years of breaking, waiting, and healing, it felt like we were going backwards.

My son’s head lifts. “Cast?”

“Yeah, buddy. I’m sorry. We need another one.” That four-letter word is probably the worst thing you could say to him, and there is nothing I can do to stop the tears once they start. I pick him up, and the surgeon and I explain that it’s a special, magic cast.

“This cast is different. You are allowed to stand on it and practice your walking. The more you stand, the stronger and better your leg will feel. ”

He’s crying even harder now, because his body has memorized what a cast means: itchiness, uncomfortable sleep, no pool time, and the grand finale, eventually having it sawed off with a device that, while tiny, sounds like a lawnmower.

“But I don’t want to walk!”

Wait, what?

I’m frozen now, trying to ignore my heart and listen exclusively to the brain. I should say something, but I’m blank. I think of the things I know I can’t say: Sure, you want to walk! Everyone wants to walk! You can’t crawl forever!

Obviously, my son can read my mind, because I promptly hear, in between sobs, “I just want to crawl.”

My heart, oh my heart.

How much do I push for the walking to happen? My son doesn’t eat chocolate cake for dinner every night and go to bed at 11 p.m. He would love to, but I’m the boss of things, for now at least.

I’ve educated myself to the brink of exhaustion on issues related to disability and autonomy and ableism. I not only want to be an okay mother to my disabled son, I want to demonstrate what respect and dignity looks like, so he can command these things later in life. I want to show him that his devices — specifically his walker and wheelchair — are wonderful pieces of equipment that provide independence. These devices will allow him to go to university, ride public transit, and go to doctor’s appointments by himself.

It’s not like I forced him to endure a comically treacherous physical regime for hours a day — we only went to therapy one hour per week — but I am guilty of saying things like, “Try another step,” or, “Let go of me,” or, “Stand and get the toy yourself.” I wonder if I’m sending a message that using his glorious wheelchair is beneath or less-than walking on two feet. I would never want to send that message.

And now I’m trying to find the middle ground between pushing him to his full potential, while also sending a message that it’s perfectly fine if he never actually walks again. Using a wheelchair, sitting down, isn’t giving up.

The cast came off two weeks ago, the one I falsely assumed was going to ruin his summer. The time went faster than I thought, and the only annoyance was the thick coating of grime on his body.

I don’t dread the day when he starts asking specific questions about his health, because I’m ready and prepared and I’ve had years to think about it. The part I dread, the thing I can’t prepare for, is his reaction to this information.

He’s going to learn that he is different from almost everyone else, and that the world is designed for people who walk on two legs. It will be him against the bipeds.

His level of understanding isn’t quite there yet, and so far the only question related to disability put an immediate smile on my face. We were at a store in the mall, and he discovered a fun game called “hide from mama.” For the first time in his life, I couldn’t catch him. He was faster than me, and I credit my being able to find him to his gleeful, echoing laughter. It also helped that a few attentive strangers were nearby to point me in the right direction.

“Mama, why doesn’t everyone use wheelchairs so they can go fast?”

I have a son who can’t walk. He doesn’t appear interested in doing so at the moment, and he sees people without wheelchairs as the ones who are disadvantaged.

Both my heart and brain agree on this one: I’m a pretty lucky mom.

There was one rule that appeared on each and every site:

WE ARE A NO-SHOE ZONE! SHOES ARE ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED AND THE WEARING OF SHOES IS PUNISHABLE BY NOT HAVING ANY FUN FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE! SOCKS AND BARE FEET ONLY, NO EXCEPTIONS, EVER, DOUBLE STAMP IT, NO ERASIES!

(alright, alright, so I might be embellishing a bit here, but the tone pertaining to this ‘socks-only’ rule was always the same: They were serious about not letting you in unless the shoes came off).

What’s the big freaking deal? Just take off your shoes like a polite human being and have some fun and stop complaining, right?

Well, no. I mean, yes. It is a big freaking deal. The no-shoes rule is an exclusive one. It assumes, quite incorrectly, that every child is able to follow this rule. That each and every child who visits their facility is capable of zipping off their runners to careen down the dinosaur-tail slide on their own. This is a false assumption.

My son has been wearing AFOs (ankle-foot-orthotics, or leg braces) since he was 13 months old. He requires extra-wide runners in order to fit over the added bulk of the plastic. He can’t walk on his own, but can fly around in his walker like Yoshi and might probably definitely school your kid in wheelchair basketball. Taking off his shoes and AFOs isn’t an option; they are a part of him. They are a medical device, and are a necessity to protect and support his legs, feet, and ankles.

Would the same rules be acceptable in the adult world? If I owned a restaurant with brand spanking new Brazilian hardwood floors, and I was TERRIFIED of customers ruining my brand spanking new Brazilian hardwood floors, would it be okay to just post a sign prohibiting shoes? Why not cover all my bases and prohibit canes, scooters, strollers and walkers? Why not really protect my investment and require everyone to wear slippers (provided free — of course — I’m no monster) upon entering the establishment?

I decided to do what any rational mom of a disabled kid might do: Calmly send a polite email to each of the facilities listed in the article.

Hello! I was just wondering what your policy was with allowing children with disabilities to use your playground. My son wears leg/foot braces and also requires a custom orthotic shoe over these. Do you typically make exceptions in these situations?

Thanks!

Jen

Here’s my breakdown of the results:

• Only 8 out of 12 places actually responded to my email (and please please please go ahead and try to convince me that the majority of able-bodied people, even those who work with children, actually care about disability rights. Please, be my guest!)
• The vast majority — 6 out of 8 — were all like, absolutely, no problem! Do whatever you have to do, as long as he can enjoy the fun! Whatever you need. One place even included the following message, which I thought was great: We are an inclusive Indoor Playground! We welcome all children and adults with disabilities and exceptionalities.
• Another place was like, eh maybe. Come in and we’ll see. In other words, be prepared to drive all the way out here so that we can decide whether or not you can actually enter. My experience as a consumer has led me to the realization that ‘maybe’ means “be prepared for disappointment because we can’t promise anything.”

The final place sent me the following response:

Of course we allow challenged children to play.

Because of the material the playland is made, the braces may either cut thru or scratch the surface, so we request that the braces be removed, and a parent or shadow plays with the child.

Have a fun day.

And then a couple seconds later I received this additional gem:

Also, it would be our pleasure to have your child play at no charge.

I don’t even know where to start. Should I begin with the use of the word ‘challenged’ or the fact that she offered my son, the poor disabled boy, free admission? How about the part where she effectively denies the use of a medical device in her establishment?

I responded immediately, apologizing profusely for not making his medical needs clear. I emphasized the fact that the braces can’t and won’t come off.

She responded with questions about the nature of the plastic, whether it would scratch or cut the surface of the playground (not sure, as I’m not quite finished my 10 000 hours of plastic interaction studies) and then concluded with “we can try and see what happens.”

Sigh.

Overall, I’m happy that the majority of responses were positive. But it isn’t good enough. I’m tired of encountering adults who engage closely with children in a professional context, who have absolutely no idea what to do with a child with disabilities. This person didn’t even know the right language to use when referring to my son.

Here’s the thing: it’s not my job to educate absolutely everyone in the world. Or anyone in the world. I’m sick of having to be the polite, diplomatic, and patient mother. The quintessential mother-of-a-disabled-kid mother. I’m tired of being ignored, of receiving a response from only 67% of these facilities, including the one described above. Even a neutral response like “maybe” feels like a small kick in the stomach. And if a place has a truly inclusive policy towards what can and can’t be worn on their equipment, why the heck isn’t this information on their website?

If you work with children, and they are different, and they have unique needs and maybe those needs just go against the grain of everything you’ve ever heard about children, do one thing: Say yes. Make them feel included. If you have created barriers in your work, find a way to remove them. Take them down. Who else is going to do it?

Have a fun day.

Let’s start with this:

and this:

and this one too (it’s a pillow!):

The first plush poo emoji item I noticed was hanging out in a game booth, waiting to be taken home by a lucky player. It wasn’t the fact that there were actual toys in the shape of coiled feces that shocked me; it was the sheer volume of said plush feces. There were hundreds, maybe millions of them, hanging from the ceilings, walls, tables, as if basking in the aftermath of a poo explosion.

It appears that these little brown fellers are the hit toy at all the amusements parks and carnivals this year. Apparently, the Calgary Stampede midway vendors couldn’t keep up with the demand, and some games have been altered in order to incorporate the little guy. Let me allow that to sink in for a moment: plush poo toys are the hot-ticket carnival item right now. It won’t be long before your sister, brother, nephew, son, or <gasp> life partner takes one of these guys home.

I am left with a few question for the people who adopt these smiling, coiled mounds — nay — smiling, coiled, mounds of human waste, and take them home to live. Forever.

1. Do you wear your poo hat around the house? If so, do you answer the door with it on?
2. If you don’t wear it around the house, is it on display in a high-traffic area? How many beers does it take before you happily put it on in front of guests?
3. Is the hat warm? Might it become your go-to winter hat for 2016?
4. Do those big cartoon poo-eyes beckon you with a guilt trip after a few days of collecting dust?
5. What did your friends say when you put that poo hat on and/or snuggled with your giant poo pillow for the first time?
6. Did anyone protest? How do you feel about this? Are you questioning the integrity of your core group of friends right now?
7. Did anyone just straight up say, that looks bad please take it off?
8. How much did it actually cost? Does it hurt your soul when you do the math in your head? What does it feel like to spend $24 on plushy poo?
9. Do you feel like you got your money’s worth? Have you been wearing the poo hat consistently in order to justify the cost?
10. When you post photos of yourself on social media wearing a poo hat, what are the comments like? Are they supportive? Have you un-friended anyone? Has your poo-hat-wearing-habit become a barometer for positive friendships?
11. How often do you wash your poo hat? Does it need to be washed more often than other inanimate-object-plush hats? Does the fact that it’s light to medium brown accentuate or hide dust/dander/cat hair?
12. How did you decide between a hat and a pillow? Was it a difficult choice? Did your mind wander to the colour scheme of your living room in order to make this decision?
13. How did you decide which poo hat to get? I mean, the wizard-style-mound is, well, wizardy, but that trucker hat looks pretty dope. Were these decisions difficult? Do you have any regrets? Do you have recurring nightmares that resemble the scene in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade where the Knight says “choose wisely” but instead of hundreds of cups, you are staring down at the most intense and varied batch of poo paraphernalia AND YOU MIGHT DIE IF YOU DON’T CHOOSE THE RIGHT ONE?

I get it (a little bit, at least). Canadians, apparently, lead the world in smiling poo emoji use. I am a proud Canadian, at least during an Olympic year, so I am going to try to keep it real and stop talking shit about all this poo stuff. At least until my son/husband/daughter asks for one. That situation might end with, quite literally, a shitstorm.

Some Questions For the People Who Own Smiling Poo Emoji Paraphernalia was originally published in The Haven on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

One of the comments, which has since been deleted, went something along the lines of:

I’m going to create a character in Assassin’s Creed named after the author and I’m gonna have a big smile on my face when I murder her over and over cause she’s a stupid c*nt and she should watch her back from all the angry gamers over here.

Cool! (Also: this comment was from a woman)

Alright, I understand the universal thing that people do when they see an attention-seeking headline that sparks a strong reaction is to NOT READ THE ARTICLE and dive head first into the comments section. That’s cool. I don’t get it, but I accept that most of you do it. Fine.

But then this article was republished on a parenting website. I mistakenly thought the message was clear: don’t let your CHILD play video games, as in your 10 year old little person. Use the age recommendation on the front of the freaking package. If it’s for 17 years and older, maybe don’t jump to the conclusion that it’s all a big conspiracy against gamers and then hand it over to your child. I wasn’t talking about big kids or adults here. You do know that, right?

It’s fine, I’ve learned my lesson. Don’t be the bitch that gets in between a person and his or her make-believe guns. Also don’t ever offer your opinion on anything, ever, especially if you are an experienced teacher.

And here’s one last secret, one that 99% of all the teachers I’ve met will agree with me on: the aggressive and annoying kids are the ones who start playing first-person shooter games when they’re 8.

(The nicer kids at least wait until they turn 12. )

As a teacher of this age group and in the past, of older teens, I’ve got to hand it to you. These years are a rough ride.

However.

Just because it’s hard, doesn’t mean you have to let your kid be the boss of you, or worse, the President Of Your Entire House. I don’t know the magic recipe of raising a great kid. I have not yet parented a pre-teen kid, but me and my 7920 hours of experience with this age group are going to share a few ideas on getting your little one on the right path to being an awesome big person.

Let’s stop with the violent video games
How about you start by not purchasing your 10 year old the newest Call of Duty game, even if it has a teensy bit less violence and profanity than other versions. In fact, don’t even buy your 20 year old Call of Duty. Games like Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, and Assassin’s Creed are full of stuff like violence against women, gun violence, graphic and violent imagery, and much much more! And it’s not like your kid is going to be watching passively; he or she is going to be an active participant in the game, making decisions like “which zombie should I kill next, and which gun should I use to kill him?”

Teach your kids that throwing their own garbage away is super cool
Nothing says “I have no respect for anyone” than leaving an apple and a half eaten sandwich inside a desk because snowflake couldn’t walk 5 feet to the nearest trash bin. I am always surprised and shocked when, at the start of every school year, I have to give a 20 minute demonstration on which type of garbage goes into recycling, and which goes in the regular bin. I also have to remind most kids on a daily basis of these rules. This shows me that one of three things is happening at home: A) Your family simply doesn’t produce garbage, so this topic never comes up. In this case, kudos to you! B) You constantly clean up after your child, and have never bothered to teach them how to use a garbage can, or C) You are incredibly fancy and live in a hotel room, where garbage is meaningless because someone else does absolutely everything for you.

Teach your kids to be aware of personal space and to be responsible for their bodies.
On a daily basis, I get hit in the back, butt, head, calf, and arm, all usually before lunch, and all accidental. As in, I just don’t care enough about you to avoid touching you when I walk by or I just can’t be bothered to wait for you to move so I’m going to squeeze in between this tiny space near your armpit. This is just weird, and quite frankly, a bit gross. Respecting personal boundaries and being able to interpret non-verbal cues are keys to things like job interviews, first dates, riding an elevator, or approaching a teacher for help.

Show them that patience is a part of life.
Shit doesn’t just happen, immediately, because you want it to. You have to wait in line for the washroom, to get on the bus, or for your hot lunch to be delivered. Sometimes, people and things are late. Teach your kids that waiting for things can be virtuous and wonderful and that waiting is just a fact of life.

Teach your kids about the importance of boundaries.
This is different from #3, which is all that “accidental” touching. I’m talking about students hitting me in the face with a pen, or putting vinegar in my water bottle, or smearing black pen all over my arm, all in the name of “jokes.” Parents, please tell your kids this isn’t funny. Teach them what an actual funny joke is. Start them off with appropriate clips of Kids in the Hall, then work your way up to Inside Amy Schumer.

Don’t buy your 10 year old a smart phone.
It will be all he/she looks at until, well, until they get distracted by something else like alcohol and drugs and raves. A 10 year old isn’t capable of NOT being on their phone once its extreme power is revealed. They aren’t capable of saying, “That’s enough for today!” More importantly, there are about a million apps out nowadays that allow your child to not only interact with strangers, but to possibly (definitely) be exposed to mature content on a regular basis. Constant vigilance is required on the parent’s part to keep on top of all the new apps out there. There’s even apps designed to hide icons on a user’s screen, allowing teens to download and hide the more questionable apps from their parents. How about you avoid this nightmare altogether and just say NO THANK YOU when your 10 year old asks for a phone? Tell them you’ll discuss it again when they turn 14. If they travel alone on public transit, and you would feel better if they had a direct way of contacting you, buy them an ancient flip phone off Ebay. No wifi, no apps, just texting and old-fashioned phone calls.

Over the years, I have seen multiple examples of people who are getting this whole parenting thing right. They raise respectful and kind 10 year olds who go on to become awesome teenagers.

It is possible to create good humans, it just takes a bit of patience and a splash of NO every once in awhile.

Hide these, like you hide your cleavage at work, because you know those things are too distracting. Pretend to not know the answers so your male co-worker can explain them to you. The answers you already know. The answers you probably originally thought of.

This is for the best, because without this display of soft cluelessness your soft misogynist co-worker won’t bring his A-game. He sits. He mopes. He’s passive. He doesn’t have the confidence to, you know, do stuff. And you need him to do stuff. The day goes faster when you overcompensate, stay quiet, nod furiously, and just grow to be as invisible as possible. Because you just can’t anymore.

When co-worker calls you over to ask what BCC means, try to cover up that shocked expression, the face that screams How the hell did you get this job. Kindly explain to the 48-year old man how email, sorry, “electronic mail” works. Resist any urge to show annoyance when you watch him open that important attachment, gaze at it blankly for an abnormal length of time, then finally ask, “Do you need me to print this?”

Remember to always be kind, especially when faced with ineffectualness, lest you be exposed with negative titles that have nothing to do with your true personality: Difficult to work with, temperamental, closed-off.

Try to look away each time co-worker starts an argument, because you’ve noticed he never argues with other men. Ignore those awkward moments when he tells another woman You’re Going the Wrong Way, You’re Doing it Wrong, or You Have No Idea What You’re Doing.

When he offers a personal story, such as how he has to pick up dinner on his way home, the ending might go something like “I can’t forget or my wife will castrate me!” If he discusses how his 12-year daughter got into an argument with her best friend, that conversation might end with an eye roll followed by a head shake followed by “Girls, you know?” Or if he’s especially comfortable in front of you, the conversation might alternatively end with a hissing sound, as if he were impersonating two cats fighting. Female cats, of course.

The pinnacle point in your relationship with this man will be when he finally asks what your son’s name is after 6 months of working together. This is also the point when you start to notice that, even though he has two children, his screensaver photos are only ever selfies of him with ultra-sexy cars. The fact that he fruitfully and regularly comments on your hair, your outfit, his wife’s boobs, his salary, his farts, and his fitness routines won’t even be the worst thing about him.

The worst thing about him is that he’s done nothing wrong.

Through a human resources lens, you have nothing. Nada. Zilch. But you still do something about it. Because you’re a woman and a mother and you need to at least try and make things right. You diplomatically relay to your boss the details of the man’s narcissistic and gently sexist behaviour. The jokes that were never funny are pointed out, underlined, highlighted. And nothing happens. Because, remember, don’t forget: he did nothing wrong.

And when you can’t take it anymore, because you have kids at home who require some of that precious patience which was zapped and sucked out of you during your workday, you quit. You leave a job you love because of a man. (A man-baby.)

And the man goes home to his daughter, and he continues to treat her differently than his son. And he will probably stay at that job for another year until someone invisible but higher-up finally notices his mistakes, and hopefully, the subtleties in his behavior. And they make a decision. And he is gone.

But so are you.

And you feel terrible, because you tried to be the bigger person, the best person. The goal was to not only cope with the less-than-ideal work situation in which you were partnered with this man, but to thrive and to blossom. To show everyone that you can do everything perfectly. You tried to see the positive things in him, but failed. You reported his behavior, but that didn’t work so well either.

He broke a bit of you, so you attempt to put some of those pieces back together. You write about it, you tell your best friend. You talk to the supportive men in your life who commiserate with you on why some men never grow up, or change, or catch on that the year is, in fact, 2016. They confirm you aren’t “crazy” or paranoid, that you are a rational and wonderful human who didn’t deserve this.

And then you might even start to see things with just a bit more clarity. The boss who only ever interrupted the girls. The cake at work that is only ever cut and doled out by female employees. The receptionist who says “no” to you but “yes” whenever a male co-worker makes a similar request.

This clarity brings you strength, and you suddenly have the confidence to ask a few more questions, to interrupt impolitely, to refrain from saying “sorry” instead of “this makes me mad.”

And then you don’t regret quitting your job anymore. And you find that safe environment to work in. And you don’t experience guilt or shame on a daily basis, and you definitely don’t unnecessarily apologize anymore, and you absolutely never need to downplay your intelligence.

You just work.