Godzilla and the Garden

Gardening is a love-hate relationship. At the beginning of the season, I can't get enough of seeds and soil, weeds and watering cans. I sing while I dig and whistle when I plant. This all changes by mid-summer, when I start to curse all creatures with six legs, moan about weeds and lapse into a state of meh regarding anything with leaves.

There's a school of thought among the all-natural parenting population that says if you engage children in growing their own vegetables, said children might begin to put these vegetables in their mouths. Since my son Dylan does not eat any vegetables except potatoes and my daughter Jade has begun turning up her nose at all things green, I figured it was time to put this theory into practice. When my kids were destructive toddlers, I’d restricted their access to the gardens, making them wander around the borders or water daintily from the edges. No wonder they were disconnected from the food I tried to force them to eat. They thought gardening was a spectator sport.

One sunny spring day, we hopped in the car and drove to Country Depot to pick out seeds. Jade picked peas for herself and watermelon for Daddy. Dylan wanted a "beanstalk" so I bought him some scarlet runner beans, which can grow up to six feet tall. I chose lettuce, cucumbers and kale for myself, and threw in some carrot seeds for D. The lady at the counter said, "Wow, you must have a big garden!" and I smiled politely while mentally face-palming myself. Like eating at a buffet, our seed appetite was way bigger than our 12x40 foot garden stomach. I'd have to improvise.

Back home, we spent a productive afternoon hoeing rows and planting seeds while tree swallows swooped and serenaded us. The kids approached their tasks with the intensity of chess players, examining each seed before poking a careful hole in the ground.

This is good, I thought as my offspring got progressively grimier. This is one giant teachable moment about appreciating the earth. I sent the kids to fill their tiny watering cans so they could “give the garden a drink.” Sitting back on my heels to draw artistic labels on each garden stake, I smiled. This had gone better than I'd expected. In a few months, I’d be able to post photos of my darlings holding up their prize produce at the Ripley Fair. I was interrupted from this pleasant reverie by the shrieks of my daughter as she ran down the backyard slope, soaking wet and wailing incoherently. I sighed. My son would need some lessons on the art of watering.

The next morning, when Dylan fled the breakfast table and ran to the garden, I was thrilled. It was working! I'd captured his interest in growing food! Soon he'd be filling his plate with raw veggies and my husband would bow before me in awe. All for the price of a few seeds. Okay, a lot of seeds.

Jade and I followed Dylan down to the garden, where we found him not so much appreciating his earthly labours as furious that nothing had grown since yesterday.

"WHERE ARE MY BEANSTALKS?" he demanded, stomping through the freshly planted rows like Godzilla bearing down on Tokyo.

"AHHH!" I screamed. "GET OUT OF THE GARDEN! YOU'LL HURT THE PLANTS!"

"I can go get him," said Jade and began to chase Dylzilla through the garden like a pink version of Mothra, at which point I chased them both out with a rake. Before "GET OUT OF THE GARDEN" could become my summer refrain, I changed it to “WALK GENTLY IN THE GARDEN!” The irony was that my kids loved being in there and I hated that they couldn’t stay out. Never mind that there was a sandbox ten feet away; they preferred to plow through the garden like relentless little backhoes. Teachable moment, I reminded myself as I ground my teeth and helped my daughter repair yet another squashed row.

On top of the near-daily destruction, it was harder than I thought it would be to convince Jade and Dylan that the seeds were, in fact, growing. I YouTubed videos of seeds germinating. They were unconvinced. I acted out the life cycle of a plant. They rolled their eyes. Every day that they went to the garden and found it empty, their interest waned. What had I done to raise two such hardened skeptics? I talked about the magic of nature and preached patience. After seven days without so much as a sprout, when I started to sing my "Have Patience!" song, Jade snapped "Earth, air, water, sun, I KNOW MUMMA, I KNOW. But WHEN are they going to GROW???" I started asking myself the same question. Maybe the constant Godzilla reenactments had smushed our poor seedlings. It would be very difficult to refrain from screaming "I TOLD YOU SO!" at my kids, which was really not the teachable moment I’d been hoping for.

Then, finally, praise Gaia, it happened. The first crinkled pea shoots poked through the earth and the kids danced around, squealing with glee. "I told you so," I muttered under my breath, then smiled. Each day, something else popped up: beans fist-pumped the air with their tiny curled hands; a green mist of carrot tops appeared; cukes and melons stood upright, flaunting bow-tie leaves. The miracle of life had survived my children’s feet. Better yet, now that the kids could see the plants, they handled them with surprising gentleness.

After the initial surge of excitement over the appearance of our seedlings, Jade and Dylan started to lose interest again. I recognized the familiar signs of garden apathy. Instead of succumbing to it this time, I doubled my efforts to keep all three of us committed to our garden project. I coaxed (and sometime dragged) the kids down to help weed and water the fruits of our labour.

“I didn’t know gardening would be so much WORK,” moaned Jade, lugging her watering can around like it was filled with bricks.

“Funny,” I said as I raked, hoed and weeded, “I thought I was doing most of the work.”

Learning to garden means learning how to deal with failure. Since I had never been particularly adept at accepting my various horticultural fails, I wanted my kids to learn how to take things in stride and not get discouraged when things didn’t go as expected. This lesson repeated itself several times: we found all six tomato plants withered beyond recognition one morning, cause undetermined. Some kind of voracious bug devoured my kale and put huge holes in the cucumber vines. Half of the peas that Jade had planted didn’t sprout and Dylan accidentally uprooted one of his beanstalks during a weeding frenzy.

With the frustrations came the triumphs, though: handfuls of fresh peas eaten straight out of the pod (well, Dylan picked and Jade ate); a ridiculous bounty of beans and lettuce; cool, mutant carrots borne from improper thinning methods; dark green watermelon babies that lay heavy and content on the ends of their vines. The swallowtail caterpillar we discovered on one of our carrot tops was the crowning glory of our gardening experience. We took “Pippy” back to the house and tracked his transformation from a bright green eating and pooping machine to a dusty looking chrysalids, until one morning he emerged onto his stick, a velvet-winged butterfly.

It’s September now, and our garden is getting yellow and droopy. It’s littered with black walnuts and chestnuts instead of vegetables, and the kids and I decided it was now okay to let the weeds do their thing. Jade still refuses to put a carrot anywhere near her mouth and although Dylan tried (and spat out) fresh beans and peas, he still screams in horror if anything resembling a vegetable lands on his plate. As an incentive to increase my kids’ veggie intake, the garden project was yet another fail in my agricultural and parenting history. But as a chance to hang out and get our hands dirty together, to share accomplishment and impatience and success and failure, to experience the communion of earth, sun, air and water? Major win, for Mumma and kiddies both.

Adventures in Lawn Tractoring…again

Spring has sprung with a vengeance at Someday. The weather's been alternating between torrential rain and gorgeous sunshine, which means our lawn has gone from crappy to shaggy to tropical rainforest-y in a matter of days. And once again, I'm on deck to keep the grassy expanses looking civilized.

I tend to yell a lot while on the lawn tractor. I yell when I run over something that makes a horrible noise (tree stumps, branches, the kids' toys), I yell when I get a cobweb in the face. I yell when I'm on a steep hill and I yell when I get stuck. The zero turn and I don't get along at the best of times, and today it seemed like it was truly out to get me.

Mowing the lawn for the first time each year means I have to shake the dust out of my winter-addled brain and remember the intricacies of lawn tractor operation (pump up the crappy front tire, check the oil, growl at the empty gas tank, drive to my mother-in-law's to steal gas, etc.) Once all the prep work is complete, it's time for my annual exercise in humiliation: I can never turn the knob to lower the deck. Every spring I want to write a venomous letter to the creators of the JD Zero Turn, stating that I don't know how they do things in America, but in Bruce County, it's mostly women who drive the lawn tractors, so stop making the deck dial tighter than Sarah Palin's smile.

With a giant sigh of defeat, I called D. He actually answered.

"Yeah Kimmy?"

"I just want to make sure I'm lowering the deck right."

"Are you on the lawn tractor?"

"No, I'm on the couch eating bonbons. Of course I'm on the tractor! The stupid dial won't turn. Do I have to have the brake off or something?"

"It's just hard to turn. You might need some help." Here, my beloved husband paused, and I could practically feel his smirk radiating through the phone. "You might have to call my dad…"

"I AM NOT CALLING A MAN TO COME AND TURN A KNOB," I yelled into the phone. D made an inappropriate but not entirely unexpected joke about knob pulling and I hung up. I grabbed the knob with all my might, yelled "TURN YOU STUPID FREAKING THING!" and twisted. The deck lowered. I fist-pumped the air and yelled "TAKE THAT!" to no one in particular and every man in general.

The problem with a wet spring is that squishy lawns and zero turns do not mix. It didn't occur to me to check the gully before driving the lumbering beast onto it. I screamed as the zero turn slid slowly and inexorably down the gully towards the wheat field and promptly got stuck in two feet of mud. After my heart stopped racing, I managed to get the tractor unstuck, and also managed to turn a large chunk of our lawn into a motocross track. This: plus this: = This: Oh yeah. I rock.

The afternoon continued to be full of small disasters. Not only was I mowing down precious bees by the dozen, I ran over two frogs. I screamed various things like MOVE! LOOK OUT! INCOMING! but they were either deafened by the mower or resigned to their fate and I assume they all became lawn mowing casualties. (I couldn't tell you for sure because I had my eyes closed.) After that, I stopped the mower every five minutes to hop out and peer into the grass to see if a tiny movement indicated a living creature, which resulted in the rescue of two toads and a frog from my giant John Deere cuisinart. Hopefully mother nature will hold off on smiting me for a while yet.

After nearly strangling myself in the kids' swing set, I decided I'd had enough of lawn mowing for one day. As I sat on the back steps, picking grass out of my hair and bra, I said a silent prayer for rain and wondered which of D's cousins I could blame for driving their ATVs so recklessly through our wet gully.

Some Days

Alarm warbles.

6:45 a.m.

Ugh.

Crawl out of bed. It's early for me. Gotta shower. Gotta get Dylan ready for daycare. Gotta walk Jade to the school bus. Gotta make some freaking coffee.

Jade is cheerful until she's not. Soon there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. She can't find her sock. Where is her sock? Dadddy picked out these socks ESPECIALLY for her. SHE CANNOT FIND HER SOCK. She slumps on the floor and wails.

The sock is beside you, I say. Look.

The wailing stops. She pulls on the sock. I want to crawl under her turquoise and lime flowered duvet and sleep. She merrily hops down the stairs. I follow, less merrily.

Dylan needs a new diaper; Jade needs juice. I need coffee. I change Dylan's diaper and pour Jade's juice. I make Jade's lunch. I drink two sips of coffee. Now it is snowsuit and backpack and where-are-your-mitts-child time.

Jade and I walk to meet the bus. The winter morning is sparkly clean. Our breath puffs as we stroll down the lane way, hand in hand. The sun rises behind us, unhurried. Dylan watches from the upstairs window, knocking and waving. He is not wearing pants.

Jade leaps on snowy crags, tells me they are mountains. Gifts the snow plow has left. The bus pulls up. I give the bus driver a chocolate bar. I was so late last Friday. That's not necessary, she says, but smiles and takes the chocolate. I hope I'm not THAT MOTHER. I hope she likes Jade. I hope Dylan doesn't drive her crazy in September.

I walk back to the house, sunrise on my face. Finches rush into the sky at my approach. In the back porch, Dylan peeps at me through the mail slot. Pudgy fingers poke out and wave. Hi Mumma. I waiting for you.

Where are your pants? I ask. Where is your diaper? My diaper is gone. His eyes are the colour of the lake in autumn. He runs away and jumps into the beanbag. Toopy and Binoo are on. I will wrestle with him later.

I check the time and sit down at the kitchen table. Flip open the laptop. Click through my email. I pour fresh coffee, close my eyes and let the aroma drift into my brain. Dylan climbs up on my lap. Demands his favourite show. He pats my face with his hand. I smell poo.

Were you playing with your bum? Tell me you weren't playing with your bum. He attempts escape. I grab his hand, lead him to the sink. He screams and flops around like a fish on a hook. I wash his hands with difficulty. He flails. Water is everywhere. I want to go back to bed.

I get a diaper. I find pants. Dylan runs away, squealing. I chase him, cajole, joke, beg, then finally, threaten. No TV, I say. Corner, I say. He relents, sobbing. Snot and tears, little chest heaving. I don't want pants, Mumma.

It's a Nina day, I say. We have to go to daycare. Daddy will pick you up. NO! He wants to go to the grocery store. He wants to go to the post office. He wants to go to Grandma's. Not today, I say through clenched teeth. My mother used to talk like that when she was mad. I squish my son into pants and socks, give up on the shirt. Fine, I say. Wear dirty pyjamas. Dirty pyjamas, he agrees and crawls into my lap, thumb in mouth, mollified. For the moment.

Get your hat, I say. I turn off the TV. I close the laptop. Dylan goes purple with rage. TV! I WANT TV! No TV, I say. Get. Your. Hat. NOW. More clenched teeth. I am going to throw something. I need more coffee. He gets his hat. He puts on his boots. He sobs. He needs his mitts. Mitts Mumma! My blue mitts are GONE! I find the mitts shoved behind the door. He needs his blankies. Where are your blankies, honey? Where are they? My blankies are gone. I check upstairs. I check the bathroom, the bedrooms. The blankies are in the tent, downstairs. I drape them over his little head. He pulls them off and beams. You found my blankies, Mumma! You found them!

I help him with his coat. I grab keys, sunglasses, purse, snow pants. We head for the car. My phone. My phone is upstairs. Dammit. I buckle my son in the car and backtrack. Damn phone. I get back in the car; start the engine. I have a doctor's appointment later. Do I have money for parking? Do I have a toonie? I check my purse; nickels and pennies. One quarter. Dammit, dammit, DAMMIT! Back upstairs. I take change from Jade's piggybank. This is not bad parenting. She has stolen most of the money from me.

Back in the car, roaring down the driveway. Off we go, I say. Like a herd of turtles, says Dylan. Like a herd of turtles, I agree. Turtles who need more coffee.

5 Things About…a highly unsatisfactory day

Today was what I (borrowing freely from L.M. Montgomery) like to call a Jonah day. It was one of those days where I wished a big fricking whale would just come along and swallow me up. Because sometimes, being confined in a dark, smelly mammal stomach is actually more appealing than living in my own reality.

Okay, maybe it wasn't that bad. I think it just felt that way because I didn't have any wine or chocolate in the house. In no particular order, here are five of the many things that made today A Highly Unsatisfactory Day.

1. I rolled in raccoon poop. That's right: I got POOP ON ME. I had taken the kids to the hayloft to play since it was -25 outside and we were all on the verge of going batshit crazy inside the house. As they jumped from bale to bale and rolled squealing through piles of straw, I warned them repeatedly to watch out for raccoon poop. Then I plumped myself down in the straw, stretched and and rolled directly onto a big plop of 'coon doodie. The kids thought it was hysterical. Jade, ever the comedian, yelled, "WATCH OUT FOR POOP MUMMA!"

2. Last night I bought two little chickens, rubbed them all over with herbs, olive oil and good mustard and roasted them to delicious perfection. Roast chicken is not part of my usual repertoire, especially since D informed me that those cute, inexpensive birds are likely ONLY TWO MONTHS OLD!? But D has been doing double duty, working at the office and then heading to the farm to do evening chores and I thought it might be fun to make something a bit different for supper. Afterward, I cleaned up most of the kitchen, but was too tired to deal with the gross pan of chicken grease and decided it could wait until morning. Have you ever seen what ten hours of air does to chicken fat? GAH. As if to drive the point home, I somehow managed to dump an entire pan of said fat mixed with hot water all over the counter, the draining board full of clean dishes, and, of course, myself. I really hope D enjoyed that chicken because it's likely the last one I'll be cooking - or cleaning up after - for a while.

3. On Tuesdays, I take Jade to skating practice. Parents are asked to take turns at "manning the booth" to sell coffee, chips, sour keys, and all that other arena goodness. This week it was my turn. I like being in the booth, because it means I don't have to chase Dylan around like a madwoman, plus I get time to chat with other parents and watch Jade swish around the ice from a perfect viewpoint. I've volunteered a few times, but this was the first time I got hit on. By two ten year old boys. Have mercy. What is this world coming to?

4. Saran wrap: 3. Kim: 0 Lord, how I hate that stuff...

5. Around 7:45 p.m., I sent the kids upstairs to undress and get ready for bed. I slumped on the couch to check Facebook and recount the the wreckage of my day. The house was a disaster; I had lunches to make, dishes to do, laundry to fold but all I wanted to do was lie on the couch and fantasize that the children would somehow put themselves to bed. It dawned on me that there was a whole lot of crazed giggling going on upstairs. I dragged myself off the couch to investigate, expecting to find them playing tickle tag or short-sheeting my bed. I did not expect to find an entire roll of toilet paper ripped into pieces and strewn about the bathroom floor while my naked children pranced through it singing, "A-rah-cha-cha-cha-CHA-cha!"

"WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!" I demanded. "WHO MADE THIS AWFUL MESS?"

"Dylan did it," said Jade immediately. "Dylan took all the toilet paper off the roll, Mumma. I did not do it." Dylan had wisely taken his naked dance party into the bedroom the moment I walked upstairs, so since he was well out of stink eye range my glare fell squarely upon my four-year-old daughter.

"So you had nothing to do with...this?" I asked, waving my hand at the toilet paper carnival.

Jade looked at me with the innocence of a baby seal."For true Mumma! I didn't take it off the roll. I only ripped it up."

At least she's honest.

I gave them both a big lecture about how every time we waste paper, a tree cries, and that seemed to leave them sufficiently chastised. At least until they discover the next household item to destroy and dance on.

So that, friends, was my day. I can only hope that yours was better. And thank my lucky stars that tomorrow is a brand new day, without any mistakes in it.

Pressing Issues

In honour of all the Christmas cookie photos being flaunted on Facebook these days, and because I'm making Smartie Cookies, which were my childhood favourite (except now I add rum), I thought I'd repost this one for you. Best read while you down copious amounts of coffee with Baileys while contemplating a ruined batch of cookies. (Originally published in 2009)

When I moved to the country, I left behind a couple of girlfriends with whom I’ve been pals for many years. We meet up every so often to drink, laugh, commiserate and rant together. We do not, however, bake together, and that's likely what has kept our friendship so stable.
You hear about women who congregate annually and form baking coalitions in someone's kitchen. Dough and hilarity ensue. Dozens of exotic cookies are baked and shared amongst the group, then everyone goes home to smugly fill their freezers to the brim with holiday baking.
In theory, this all sounds very Martha Stewart. It sounds like something a country woman, or at least a woman who recently moved to the country, should do, and our kitchen at Someday just begs to be socialized in. Bright and spacious, with lots of counter space, it’s the perfect place for a baking party. I can practically hear it whispering, "If you bake it, they will come.”

Sometimes I sigh and wish my sisters and city friends lived closer so we could have our own bake-bonding sessions. Then I attempt to make cookies or cupcakes and the burning smell snaps me back to reality: I would probably kill anyone who tried to share my kitchen. Although I come from a long line of amazing cooks, baking isn't my forte. I never learned the fine art of making pie crust from scratch or how to produce the giant pans of squares that are a staple here in Bruce County. And as my younger sister or D could tell you, I don’t play well with others in the kitchen. I’m bossy and not very forgiving when things go wrong.

My city girlfriends are not without a sense of humour. A few years ago, they gave me a cookie press for Christmas. They know about my baking dysfunction, but they also know I am addicted to sweets and still occasionally try to make stuff from scratch. This past December, the weather outside being frightful, I decided to give in, assume my position as a country woman and bake some Christmas cookies. Shortbread - that old Yuletide classic - seemed a logical choice, and I asked my mother-in-law to help. Shirley, quite simply, is a kitchen goddess. She stews, cans, preserves, roasts - she does it all. She is especially adept in the baking department, so I figured that with her help, I couldn't possibly screw up.

We sat down at her kitchen table to read and re-read the hallowed shortbread recipe that I’d weaseled out of a colleague. Every year, my colleague made dozens of delicate cookies and brought them into the office. Her cookies were incredible, the type of shortbread that melts in your mouth, pressed in beautiful designs and decorated with tiny candies. I loved them so much that she used to bring me a separate tin for my own personal consumption. When my friends gave me the cookie press, I begged my colleague for her recipe, which she relinquished after much coaxing. I had the press, I had the recipe, and I had Shirley. There would be no burning smell today.

Shirley and I unpacked the cookie press, took it apart, admired the different patterns. We measured the ingredients for the dough and mashed everything together with our hands. Things were going swimmingly until we jammed the dough into the press and attempted to mould our first cookie in the shape of a wreath. I clicked the trigger of the press and looked down at the cookie sheet. Nothing. I tried again. Still nothing. I let Shirley try. No cookie. I shook the press like it was a martini mixer, smacked it vigorously and tried again. Nada.
I could feel the curse words I’d promised myself I would not say bubbling to the surface, and forced them down. I was in my mother-in-law’s kitchen, and needed to remain calm. There couldn’t be any fits of cookie rage today. Shirley must have sensed I was about to pitch the stupid press through her screen door. She gently extricated it from my clenched fists and set it on the table. “Let’s read the instructions again,” she suggested.

Upon further examination, the instructions on the cookie-press box warned us not to use a cold cookie sheet (not a problem, as Shirley’s house is always a toasty 75 degrees), and not to use a non-stick surface. Well, who owns a cookie sheet these days that isn't non-stick? We looked at each other in disgust.

“What if we added a little water to the dough?” said Shirley after a few moments of silence in which I imagined running over the cookie press with Carman’s jeep. We added a little water, smushed the dough back into the press and voila! out came our first cookie. It looked like my fantasy about Carm’s jeep had come true. We changed the pattern to the tree and tried a few more. They looked like deflated, Charlie Brown Christmas trees. And so it went.

Three dozen pressed cookies and as many suppressed swear words later, I discovered that the oven wouldn't heat up. “That’s strange,” said my mother-in-law. “It worked today when I made the roast beef.” I was starting to think the cookie press was cursed.

When we finally did get the oven going and the cookies were baked, we sat down at the table with mugs of tea and sampled our handiwork. We made the appropriate "My, aren't these yummy!" noises, but the cookies tasted like warm butter mixed with sawdust.

Refusing to admit they were that bad, I pounced on D when he walked in the door. “Here, try this,” I said and forcibly shoved a cookie in his mouth. He chewed...and chewed...and chewed, then fled to the fridge for some milk. "Gahhh," he said after a mighty swallow, "not my favourite."

My mother-in-law politely declined my offer to share the cookies with me (“Oh no, you keep them, you’ll need them for your guests”), so I ended up with three dozen nasty shortbread cookies in my freezer that I indeed served to guests throughout the holiday season, accompanied by big cups of eggnog. The cookie press went back where it belonged, in the darkest corner of my least-used cupboard.

I was tempted to send tins to my girlfriends in the city, but wanting to preserve our friendship, I just told them all about my adventures in country woman baking and we had a good laugh. I think they’ll just give me a bottle of wine next Christmas, and maybe a box of store bought biscuits to go with it. My saint of a mother-in-law has promised to give me some recipes for squares, because they're supposed to be "foolproof." It's touching that she still has that much faith in me.

Tangled Plots

I'm what you might call a greedy gardener. I have formal flower beds at the front and back of the house, a huge vegetable garden and a new hillside flower bed outside my office. I regularly neglect every one of them, yet I have a near-pathological urge every spring to BUY MORE STUFF. Often these new plants, purchased in a heady rush of excitement over their colour/fragrance/newness, are left to wilt in their containers because I haven't got the faintest idea where to put them, or I get busy with other things, or it's too hot out. I know. I should be banned from all garden centres within a 50 km radius or whipped with stinging nettles for serial botanical neglect. Thank heavens the only one who really notices is D, and I don't really listen to him when he starts ranting about how many times he's tripped over my nearly dead marigolds or wilted roses.

My enthusiasm for gardening bursts into action in April and peters out around July, or whenever the first bout of relentless humidity descends upon the Bruce. There’s something rejuvenating about spring gardening; I dive into the task of tidying up autumn debris with a big silly grin on my face. I don’t know if it’s the scent of fresh earth, or the way my muscles start to unwind after the laziness of winter, or the feel of my crusty old gardening gloves. Probably all three. There's deep pleasure in being outside without ten layers of clothes, digging in my patches of dirt.

There are so many gardens at Someday I hardly know where to begin tidying up all the gunk to make way for spring blooms. This year I decided to tackle the wild looking patch along the driveway that I like to call my "naturalized rock garden" (although it doesn't have very many rocks and looks more like a nature preserve than a garden). It's full of perennial treasures like columbines and bluebells and forget-me-nots, and over the years I've planted fragrant grape hyacinths, stubborn crocuses and crinkly-leaved primulas as part of my previously mentioned compulsion. Last summer, I even hauled six loaf-of-bread-sized rocks home from the beach. “See?” I told D. “Now it’s a rock garden.” D rolled his eyes and muttered something about crazy people and their stones.

Spring gardening has a lot in common with brushing a toddler's hair. You're tempted to rake through the snarls and tangles and sticky bits without mercy, but you know that if you do, it will all end rather badly. The trouble is that my so-called rock garden rests under four very large maple trees, and in the spring, every inch of the ground is covered in crispy dead stuff. I try to pick leaves off the flowers with one tine of the rake, but I always end up getting impatient. I start thinking how good a hot cup of coffee would taste, twang the rake a bit too vigorously, and a little bluebell head snicks off and rolls down the hill, causing me to shriek as though I've just witnessed Eddard Stark's beheading.

Once the cleanup is done, usually around May, my planting obsession takes over. Five years of wildly unorganized purchases have taught me that a crowded garden is not a happy garden. Stick too many plants close together and things start to tilt out of balance: one flower elbows out another, a gang of aphids show up, weeds strangle the roses and suddenly it’s chaos.

My preference for buying “care free” perennials backfires because I forget to thin and transplant them. The front gardens have been taken over by a fuzzy but determined troop of lambs’ ears; the harmless looking plant that resembles giant buttercups has morphed into a yellow menace, squishing my poor peonies and threatening my innocent mock orange. Daisies have exploded in unexpected places from heaven knows where. And don’t get me started on what were once two tiny patches of sweet woodruff I’d brought from my old gardens in Waterloo. Apparently woodruff takes the term “ground cover” very literally.

You’d think I’d learn a thing or two from my mistakes, and try to limit my flower-buying until I get my gardens in some semblance of order. Instead, I have a dahlia, a clematis and a geranium gasping for water in their pots by the garage, a husband who wants to strangle me and a slightly guilty conscience. If only someone would hurry up and invent a spray-in conditioner for tangled up garden messes. And a cure for obsessive plant buying.

Don't Mess with the Dress

I went for a flying visit to the city yesterday to have dinner with some old, dear friends and to get my glasses fixed. I also had another, less pleasurable item on my agenda: I needed new clothes.

Many of my friends up here complain that there’s nowhere to shop in Kincardine, especially for clothes. I’ve found that between Southampton and Goderich there are plenty of boutiques, some lovely consignment shops and even a few mainstream stores. “But there aren’t any malls,” my friends moan. To which I quietly respond, “Thank the Lord.” Because I really, really hate malls.

I’ve never been much for owning the latest fashion trend, although I often notice and admire folks who wear their clothes with flair. I think clothes should be functional and fun, and serve as an expression of your personality. The problem is that my fashion personality of late could best be described as indifferent. Or, as my sister so eloquently puts it: “Meh.”

I like to wear clothes that make me happy, like a colourful dress that hugs my body and makes D’s eyebrows go up like Groucho Marx’s, or jeans that are so comfortable I forget I’m wearing them. This summer, most of my clothes just make me shrug. My jeans are torn and frayed, or else they sag and make me look like I’m wearing a full diaper. My tee shirts are stained, stretched, moth-eaten or all three and my favourite skirts are older than my marriage certificate. I have beautiful closets, and nasty clothes.

Since I’m done being pregnant, over my career crises, and my other health issues are fairly under control, I’m hoping my wildly fluctuating body shape will settle down where it’s currently at, give or take a few pounds. Last year’s happy Buddha pot-belly is gone, D keeps asking me whether I have any pants that don’t have torn cuffs, and I’m getting a bit tired of searching for shirts that haven’t been used as a moth picnic. But what really made me realize a shopping trip was in order was a conversation I had with Jade before I left for the city.

“Hmmm, which top should I wear with this skirt?” I mused aloud as I surveyed the tumbled mess of half-folded shirts in my closet. I’d chosen a longish cotton pencil skirt emblazoned with a dragon-phoenix-y thing; it was a hand-me-down from my more fashionable sister. D hates that skirt because it hides my legs. I love it because it's comfortable and good for days when I didn’t feel like shaving my legs.

I reached into the closet and selected a garnet-coloured tee shirt that sort of matched the feathers in the phoenix-dragon’s wings. The v-neck was stretched and the colour was faded, but it was the best I could do. “There, this will look nice.”

Jade, who was standing beside me, crossed her arms. “No, it won’t.”

“But...it matches my skirt?” I said, taken aback that my four-year-old daughter had an opinion about what I wore.

“No, Mumma,” said Jade. “I will choose you something else. That one is yuckky.”

As I watched my child rummage through my motley collection of shirts, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be taking advice from someone who thought wearing pink pyjamas every day for a week was the height of fashion sense. Then it hit me; my daughter noticed what I wore, knew I wasn’t all that happy wearing it, and that made some kind of difference to her. Which got me thinking about how I’d been dressing lately: sloppily, without much thought to whether my clothes were neat or clean (the one clothing rule I enforce with both my kids), or whether I felt good in them. I’d forgotten an important fact: little kids notice everything. As a parent, I was a living, breathing model of adulthood, from the way I brushed my teeth to the way I handled a phone call from the “this will just take a moment of your time” telemarketing company. As trivial as it seemed, the clothes I wore and the way I felt when I wore them was all part of the model.

As Jade handed me a sheer orange top with an image of Ganesh surrounded by twinkly rhinestones in the middle, I thought about my own mother and her flair for fashion, as comfortable in silk dresses and high heels as she was in the terrycloth tank tops she wore in the garden. I didn’t need to prance around in yellow silk, but maybe I needed clothes that made me feel good about myself to keep my “roughing it” outfits in balance.

Lots of people I know adore shopping. My mother was the master of it, and my sister Tanzi and friend Ruth are the same. They have an incredible instinct for finding outfits that are the right size, colour and style, usually on sale. Even D, on his rare annual shopping expeditions, can pick out half a dozen shirts and pants that look great on him in less than an hour. Me? Not so much. I don’t mind window shopping, but honestly, I’d rather clean eaves troughs in the rain than try on clothes. The trip to the city was a golden opportunity to right my fashion wrongs, though, and I figured the mall, as much as I loathed it, would be the quickest and most painless way to get myself a few summer outfits to help look more like a confident, funky mama than a bag-lady.

Right.

There are days when I really feel my age. Like when Dylan runs away from me and I nearly have a coronary trying to catch him. Or when I walk into a store at the mall filled equally with thud-thud electronic music and pretty teenagers clad in white shorty-shorts. Then I feel every millisecond of my forty-three years.

As I took my fourth step into the store, I had three immediate thoughts:
1) Why is everything so short?
2) Why is everything so cheap?
3) What the hell am I doing here?

I should have turned around and found a different store, one with fewer teens and more down-tempo music. Instead, I ground my teeth together, grabbed a random sampling of synthetic stuff off the “Now 3$!” and “2 for 10!” racks and corralled a bored-looking clerk. I told her I wasn’t sure what size I was so I’d taken two of everything to try. She chewed her gum, flicked her eyes over my body and shrugged.

“Prob’ly a medium,” she said with another shrug and nodded at me to follow her as she scuffed her bejewelled ballet flats across the store to the change rooms.

After trying on my third absurdly short sundress, having had to squeeze my way out of my tiny change room to the communal mirror each time, I gave up. The clothes just weren’t me. In fact, the whole store just wasn’t me. I felt, more than ever, like a sloppy, un-funky, old-bag-lady mom and fled the store.

In vain I searched the mall for stores with styles that might speak to me, that girl who used wear fun dresses to work, the woman who used to get tarted up to go out dancing, this country mama who wanted something pretty but functional, casual but flattering, feminine but tough enough to withstand sticky embraces and blueberry pancake missiles. It didn’t take long to figure out that whatever I needed, I was definitely not going to find at the freaking mall.

Hot, flustered, angry at the stores, the clothes and myself, I got into my car and started driving. I went past the beautiful wooded trails where I used to walk on my lunch hours, past the old building where I’d spent seventeen years of my working life, past my favourite sushi restaurant. Suddenly I was downtown Waterloo, near Young Street. And that girl who used to know how to dress whispered “Turn left, TURN LEFT!” so I did, and found myself in front of Unique Boutique, a clothing store my sister and I had discovered a decade ago when we’d both lived in the city.

The shop is owned by a warm, lovely woman named Gosia. She’s the type of person who wears her clothes so effortlessly that you feel as though they’re simply part of her. Her store is full of outfits and shoes and jewelry that are one-of-a-kind, colourful and, well, unique. I hadn't been there in years, but Gosia remembered me and asked about my sister, too. She listened carefully as I stammered through my sad mall story, the fact that I had two kids and was a completely different size than I'd been last year. She nodded, thought for a minute, and then began to fly around her store, gathering dresses and blouses she thought would suit me and my lifestyle. I’ve never had such fun trying on clothes; I’ve never felt so well attended in a store before. It was the best hour of shopping I’ve ever had in my life. I even stuffed the garnet shirt and phoenix skirt into my purse and wore a new black dress and long beaded necklace right out of the store.

And that, my friends, is how I finally ended up with the delightful sundress I’m floating around in today, a wild concoction of peacock green with red and purple paisley spots with spaghetti straps and a deep V-neck that flatters my boyish chest. It’s just short enough to make D smile, and it’s cool and stretchy enough for me wear while I dive after the kids. Like the other stuff I bought, it wasn’t on sale, but I can tell it will last me more than a few summers.

Jade took one look at me after I’d put the dress on this morning, fingered the soft material and said, “Ooooh, Mumma, this feels so beautiful and cosy.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I'm baaaaa-aaaack!

My first instinct was to call this post "Yo bitches, I'm back!" You know, a catchy, gleeful, boo-YA! type of title since I've been out of action for so long. But it seemed a little too gangsta for some of my more gentle readers, not to mention the fact that I don't actually talk like that (except in my head). All I could think of instead was the voice of that little possessed girl from poltergeist: cute and a wee bit creepy.

Because when a blogger that I follow (and by "follow," I mean check in on when I'm bored) drops out of the blogosphere for no apparent reason, it is a little creepy. I tend to fret. Did they die? Did they lose both index fingers in a horrible keyboarding accident? Or did the activity of blogging just become so boring they threw up their hands in disgust and vowed never to post navel-gazing claptrap again?

F*** You Penguin, Zombie Guy and YayNayDay, all blogs that I enjoyed reading, have all gone the way of the dodo in the last few years, ceasing their entertaining posts without much, if any, explanation. Their disappearances left me feeling a bit bereft. Even though I didn't visit their blogs every day, dropping in to find no recent entries was like going over to a friend's place, hoping for a friendly chat, only to discover your friend won't answer the door. You just wanted to pop in and chat for a minute, dammit; where the heck did they go?

So if anyone out there has experienced a similar feeling of mild disappointment (or irritation) after arriving at Someday to find I haven't been posting since December, I do apologize. The truth is so banal that I'd rather tell you what didn't happen. As in:
- I did not break my leg skiing after winning the Canadian Butter Council's all-expenses paid trip to Banff.
- I was not arrested for participating in peaceful, naked protests on Parliament Hill.
- I have not gone all Honey Boo Boo on my kids and hired them out to toddler modelling circuits.
- I did not adopt a Vietmanese potbellied pig.
- I did not catch c-dif again. (THANK GOD)
- I was not swept away on a romantic month-long vacation to Japan, Kuai or Bora Bora. (sigh)

Okay, okay. Here's the truth:
- in early November, I pulled two muscles in my neck and became severely dehydrated playing my very first game of hockey, which led to a violent migraine, which led to 48 hours in bed. (I did score one goal though)
- Both kids contracted the flu, which led to a reocurrance of an anxiety disorder I thought I'd just said goodbye to.
- The anxiety triggered a month of wildly unpleasant bowel experiences, which resulted in a joint colonoscopy/endoscopy (or, as D put it, a "two-fer"), which resulted in a diagnoses of IBS, which is what I think doctors tell people like me when they find out we're not dying of colon cancer or cursed with colitis, but will be stuck for life with a cranky tummy and unpredictable bowels
- Enter medication, which my body decided to unceremoniously reject, leaving me in bed for over three weeks, unable to eat anything that didn't resemble broth or applesauce.
- Say hello to full-blown anxiety attacks, with an occasional smash of depression, which made me feel as though I'd fallen into a rather large, rather black hole that I couldn't seem to claw my way out of...

...but I did. With lots and lots of help. Phew.

So, see? I've got reasons, people! I didn't just bugger off and decide blogging was for foodies, celebrity hounds and sarcastic moms. I was here, fretting about my own absence; I was here, writing poignant, moving blog posts in my head that I promptly forgot; I was here, wondering if you'd come back and knock on the door again. I'm so glad you did.

Just so you know, this blog was never intended to be about anxiety, depression or IBS, and it's not going to change now. There are so many other, more talented bloggers who capture these experiences in a much more graceful, succinct manner than I ever could. The Someday Diaries is just going to be about life at Someday, in all its crazy glory.

And I'm back to answer the door, even if I have to crawl over to do it.

Hard Cider and Anne Murray do not a Christmas make

(An expanded and edited version of the original story, first published in 2009. In honour of D's birthday gift - see photo - I'm publishing it again.)

Our original two-month say in Blair’s Grove with Carman while Someday was being renovated turned into six months. Oops.

According to the renovation crew, once you start pulling down walls in an old place, there is always more work to be done than you’d originally thought, and they kept finding doozies in every room. Good old Doc Munn was probably having a hearty laugh at our expense. Still, we wanted to get all the renovations done at once, so it made sense to fix each problem as it came up rather than put it aside to be done “someday.”

To Carm’s credit, he never once complained or even showed any indication that he was sick of us, even when Neko slept on his carpet and scratched up the drywall. As for me, I found that living with the brothers Lowry was kind of fun. Boys don’t hold grudges or try to borrow your clothes. While they’re often messy creatures who suffer from an inability to watch one program at a time on TV, I enjoyed living with them. I learned all sorts of interesting new terms, like “chassis,” “Husquvarna” and “Gordie Howe hat trick.” Apart from raunchy hockey equipment and an eternally raised toilet seat, Carm and D were easy to live with. Until our first Christmas together rolled around.

Having grown up with a mother who celebrated every holiday by turning our house into something akin to a department store window display, I was interested to see how the boys would decorate for Christmas. They didn’t.

I’d done all the Thanksgiving and Hallowe’en decorating in Blair’s Grove that year by myself, which had been okay. But this was Christmas! Only Scrooges didn’t enjoy decorating at this time of year. They simply had to get into the spirit of things. So I accosted the boys during a break in Coach’s Corner and declared that Christmas decorating should be a shared responsibility by all occupants of Blair’s Grove. They looked at each other and shrugged, then asked me to move out of the way, which I took as assent.

The next night after chores, Carman begrudgingly dug out some candy cane lights from the basement and hooked them up in the front yard. They were hideous, but at least he was participating. The next night, he drove home with a nine foot Christmas tree strapped to the roof of his jeep. I was thrilled with the soft needles, the perfect height, the delicious smell. Then he informed me I’d be decorating it by myself, because that was “woman’s work.” Just like lawn-mowing.

D and Carman set up the tree in the tree holder while I pawed through three giant boxes of decorations Carm had hauled out from the depths of his closet. At first, I wondered why someone with such an aversion to decorating would have such a massive collection of ornaments. Then I remembered my mother-in-law, the unsung supplier of all necessities at Blair’s Grove. Shirley would have made sure Carman was well provided the first year he moved in, but the ornaments didn’t even look like they’d been used.

The decorations were mostly red and gold, and while I preferred a bit more variety, I wasn’t about to root around in our freezing cold garage at Someday to try to unearth my own supply. It was Carm’s house, after all. I’d make do with his stuff. At least it would make Shirley happy.

No sooner had I poured myself a glass of wine and hung the first ornament than the boys plunked themselves down on the couch, staring at my handiwork. Aw, they’ve come to help after all, I thought. The big softies.

My warm fuzzies disappeared the moment Carman declared, "Something's missing," went to his shelves and carefully selected a CD. A moment later, Anne Murray’s velvety voice blasted through the house at full power.

I hate Anne Murray.

I don't care if she's Canada's most beloved songstress. I don’t care that my aunt in Halifax has met her and says she’s nice or that my cousin taught her kids. I just cannot stand the sound of her voice; it makes my skin crawl. The brothers Lowry, however, love her. Like, really love her. They have a double CD of her Christmas music which they insisted on playing while I decorated. Twice.

Anne was belting out “Christmas in Killarney” when Carman decided to get up and evaluate my ornament hanging skills. D wisely remained on the couch and said nothing.

"That one should go a little further to the left, there, Kimmy."

I moved it to the left.

"I wouldn't just put that there red one so close to the other red one. You gotta mix 'em up a little."

I mixed them up a little.

"Well, how come you're not using these silvery ones? See, they go like this, against the light so it shines through."

That was when I turned my back on him and fantasized tossing my wine in his face, setting fire to the tree and frisbeeing the Anne Murray CD into the snow. I opened my mouth to say something that probably would have made Father Christmas blush when I was arrested by the sight of D. He’d disappeared to the basement during Carm’s critique of my decorating skills, and had now reappeared wearing his younger brother Paul’s childhood hockey helmet and clutching a bottle of homemade hard apple cider.

It’s hard to describe the taste of the boys’ cider; I’d peg it somewhere between rocket fuel and apple cider vinegar. One sip and your stomach feels like it’s on fire. Three sips and it starts to taste pretty good. A whole glass and suddenly you love everyone in the world and are wearing too many clothes. To a girl with plenty of first-hand cider experience under her belt, the helmet made sense.

“What the hell are you doing, buddy?” asked Carm.

"I gotta wear something for protection if I'm gonna help you two decorate this tree," D explained as he mounted a rickety kitchen chair and threw a wad of tinsel at a branch. He held the uncorked bottle of cider in one hand and grabbed another handful of tinsel with the other. “Oh, cooooome all ye faiiiiiiithful,” purred Anne in the background. As I sat on the couch and watched my helmeted husband and his brother decorate the tree, I decided to relish the touching holiday moment and not interfere.

Our tree wasn’t particularly stylish or symmetrical, but I thought it was beautiful in a manly sort of way, and we spent many evenings craning our necks around it to try to see the TV. Carm’s “finishing touch” - an electric train set ceremonially placed around the circumference of the trunk - gave the tree an extra touch of testosterone. The boys turned the train set on randomly throughout the Christmas season, usually when I was trying to read a book. I was not going to complain about anything that drowned out Anne Murray though.

On the night in early January when I dismantled the tree, it occurred to me that next Christmas D and I would be decorating our own tree at Someday while Carm was all alone at Blair’s Grove. The thought made me feel a bit wistful. I decided I’d try to coax my brother-in-law to come up and help us with our tree when the time came. I’d make sure there was a bottle of cider in the fridge and a few helmets for safety. And I’d carefully hide all the Anne Murray CDs.

November Heat

Ah, November. A glum, damp month. Not quite autumn, not quite winter, but definitely the type of month that makes you feel like staying indoors. It makes me long for the giant wood-burning fireplaces of my childhood home.

We had two of them in New Hamburg: an elegant marble one in the living room that glowed and crackled delightfully whenever we had company, and a more rugged looking one in the den that Mom liked to light for our movie nights.

At my place in Waterloo, I contented myself with a rather bland looking electric fireplace, since the house had no working chimney. Now, at Someday, we have a gorgeous stone fireplace with propane heat that keeps my toes warm on these chilly November days. But none of these heating devices can hold a candle to the wood-burning stove at Carman’s place in Blair’s Grove.

The big, black stove takes up half of Carm’s dining room and is positively medieval looking. It’s large enough to roast an entire lamb, or at least a really fat raccoon...but no one uses it. I had been begging the boys to put on a fire for me ever since my first winter visit to Blair’s Grove. They always refused with a handy excuse: the ashes hadn't been cleaned out, the chimney would catch on fire, we didn’t have enough wood, it wasn’t cold enough outside, you didn't bring your bikini, etc.

Then came the fateful November day when D and I were living there and the power went out thanks to 70km/hr winds. Having moved to what seemed like the windiest place in Ontario meant I finally got my wood stove wish.

Fire and wood stoves have been a part of my life as long as I can remember. I’m a sucker for the crackling warmth afforded by my Dad's modern stove at his cabin. It throws off just enough heat to make me feel pleasantly drowsy, and I love the camp-firey smell that stays in my hair and on my clothes afterwards. In New Hamburg, I used to spend hours stretched out on the orange shag rug in front of the aforementioned den fireplace, soaking up its cozy heat. I was not prepared for the raging, creosote scented inferno at Blair’s Grove that lasted eight hours and made me feel as though I was bathing in lava.

I should have suspected what I'd be in for when Carm marched up from the basement carrying two chunks of wood, each as big as my torso.

"You want a fire, eh, Kimmy?" he said, creaking open the blackened doors of the ancient stove and shoving the wood in as far as it would go. "Well, I'll build you a fire."

Fifteen minutes later, I was basking happily in the delicious warmth. I'd plunked myself in the rocking chair that sits in the corner of the dining room. With a book on my lap, the dog at my feet and a cold drink within reach, I was in November heaven.

Carm smirked at me. "So you're gonna sit in here, are you?"
"Well, yeah," I said, with a "duh" look on my face. "That's the whole point of having a fire."
Casting a knowing glance at the indoor thermometer, which read 22 degrees, Carm nodded goodbye and left to do chores. With a sigh of pleasure, I opened my book. Ten minutes later, I was opening a window and discarding my sweater and socks. The thermometer read 28 degrees.

Another ten minutes passed and the thermometer hit 30. I contemplated putting on shorts, but couldn't lift my sweat-soaked body out of the chair to find them. When the temperature hit 32, I called up to the farm. My mother-in-law laughed at me. "Are you warm enough?" she asked. I could hear Carman chuckling in the background.

I’ve never been very good in the heat; I’m more of a fall-winter person than a summer person. If the temperature rises past 25 degrees, I bypass irritable and go straight to beast from hell. So there I was, trapped at Blair’s Grove with the angry stove, trying to get as far away as possible from the fire I'd so desperately longed for. Neko had long since retreated to the bathroom and wisely had her head up against the cool porcelain toilet. Since there wasn’t enough room there for both of us, I crammed myself into the far corner of the living room with the window cranked all the way open, pummeled by storm winds while I gasped for breath.

D arrived home from work after a scary drive through the storm. He took two steps inside the door, threw his arms wide open and said, “Ahhhhh!” The man loves his heat as much as I detest it. It’s probably good we live in Canada, where we can both be happy with the weather for at least half the year.

He threw off his coat and stretched out on the couch, basking in the 34 degree roasting pan that was Blair’s Grove. “Ahhhh,” he said again, smiling his lovely creased smile. “Kimmy, it’s the perfect temperature in here. Shut that window, would you?”

I think it's the only time I've declined to cuddle with him on the couch.

Potbelly Blues

"Oooh, are you in a family way?" asked the petite Filipino clerk at Bulk Barn as she scooped my giant sack of almonds into a bag. She was looking not at my almonds, but at my pot belly, which was resting up against the counter.

"Um, no," I said, "This is just...fat."

Awkward.

The clerk flushed and stammered an apology. I told her it was okay. But really, it wasn't. I could tell she wanted to disappear into the depths of whatever dimension should swallow people whose feet are firmly lodged in their mouths, so I manufactured a smile and told her I had two small children close together and I just couldn't seem to get rid of my belly and geez, I guess I was going to have to stop eating so many almonds. Then I left the store and went to my car and cried.

If this makes me sound like a vain, phoney person, well, whatever. Social convention and years of being told to "be nice" governed my actions in the above situation. Plus I'm not the type to make a scene in public, and really, it was just a thoughtless comment. The clerk is usually kind to me and my kids when we come in. She didn't say what she said to be hurtful. And my pot-belly apparently sticks out enough to be mistaken for my being in "a family way." Although I'm guessing that she won't be asking any other female customers that same question anytime soon. So at least my potbelly has served a useful purpose. (You're welcome, other pot-bellied female patrons of Bulk Barn.)

Usually, I'm not overly concerned with my physical appearance. I think that's because a) I've been blessed with great genes that have allowed me to be thin for most of my life, and b) I don't often give a crap what other people think of my clothes, my hair or my body. Then again, strangers don't usually make comments about my appearance, so not giving a crap hasn't been all that challenging. Until lately.

I really don't know where the damned thing came from. I spent most of last year looking gaunt and skeletal with a concave stomach thanks to the c-difficile, so this whole jiggly gut syndrome has thrown me for a loop. I swear, I woke up one morning and my pants didn't fit anymore. I could feel my belly wiggle when I went over bumps in the car. Dylan could suddenly poke his entire index finger into my belly-button. Even D squinted at my stomach suspiciously last month and asked me if I had eaten a big lunch that day. What the what?

I have a feeling that indulging in a month of beer and dill-pickle chip therapy after I resigned from my job didn't help. I know that once you hit forty, your body shape changes in ways you never expected, and that after being preggo for four years in a row, with two c-sections, my tummy will never be the smooth, taut little trampoline it once was. I get that. And I'm okay with that. What I'm not okay with is having small children poke my squishy bits and ask if there's a baby in there, or when wine store clerks raise their eyebrows at me and look pointedly at the "Alcohol consumption is dangerous to unborn babies" sign on the wall. Yes, both of those things have happened.

My doctor weighed me when I went to see her about my pot-belly, but made no comment about my weight. And she would not tell me where I was on the BMI index.

"I don't believe in those numbers," she said. "I believe in exercise and eating right and feeling good."

"Oh," I said.

"So," she continued, "how DO you feel?"

"Fat," I said. "My stupid clothes don't fit. People think I look pregnant. It sucks."

My doctor made a "humph" noise, and asked me to get up on the table. She prodded my pot-belly for a few minutes, then told me I could get up.

"So?" I asked.

"Well, Kim, you're at an age where your metabolism is starting to slow down. You had babies late in life, and you had a survived a dangerous infection last year. It's not the number on the scale that concerns me, it's how you're feeling about yourself."

"Oh," I said.

"Start doing things that make you sweat, 30 minutes a day, as many days a week as you can. When you start feeling better about yourself, that's when you know you're on the right track." She paused and looked at my eyes, not my belly. "Think you can you do that?"

I nodded. She was right, and of course I could. I just didn't WANT to. But I had to admit it - I wasn't getting enough exercise. Despite feeling like I'd run a marathon every other day, chasing unruly toddlers didn't count as cardio. And at least my pot-belly wasn't some alien tumour or giant fibroid. It wasn't how much I weighed, it was the message my pot-belly was trying to tell me: TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, GIRL!

D hauled his mother's ancient stationary bike out of her basement and dragged it home for me. My friend's husband lent me some pirated copies of Homeland and Californication, which I now watch as I sweat and curse in the basement, 30 minutes two nights a week. I've snipped several frightening workouts out of fitness magazines and attempt to do them another two nights a week without dropping dead on the living room floor. It's all very amusing in an S&M kind of way. But I think it's working. I can now suck in my pot belly a little bit, which means I'm growing some stomach muscles. And I can stand up straighter and hold my yoga poses on Thursday nights without farting or wanting to murder somebody. Progress!

Still, I hate working out. I hate sweating. And I used to love it so much! I used to go to the gym with darling Ruthie three nights a week after work back when I lived in the city. But that was seven years ago, and a lot has changed since then.

So I'm avoiding sugary stuff, saying nyet to chips and beer during the week, and trying to incorporate more protein and fibre into my diet. Which, since I've never been on a diet before in my life, feels very weird to me. I'm not trying to sound obnoxious, honest. I'm just saying. But pot-belly has spoken, and pot-belly must be banished.

Wish me luck.

Kimber of the Corn: Part III - The Sellin'

I hoisted up the sweet corn sign (painted on the back of my beloved sunflower sign), resurrected the trusty pink umbrella and filled the cooler with eight dozen cobs of corn. After setting the money jar in its hallowed place, I treated myself to a long shower to remove sweat, grunge and any stray spores. I hosed down Tilly too, and hung her on the clothesline. Looking more like the mistress of Someday and less like an underpaid farm-hand, I poured a tall, cold drink and sat down to pay some bills, hoping to distract myself from spying out the front window. I set a reminder to go out and fill up the cooler (and check the money jar) in a couple of hours.

With sunflowers sales, I didn't meet many customers, but because the corn supply had to be replenished frequently, I came face to face with buyers quite often. On the first day, I realized that selling corn - or anything, for that matter, that you've grown or made yourself - would offer a stern lesson in human nature. The exchange of goods for money means you get to see the good, the bad and the just plain rude up close and personal. And I saw all three within a span of two days.

Like the woman who wrinkled her tanned little nose as she picked through the selection in the cooler and said, "Not very big, are they?" I thought that 23 years of working in customer service centres would have prepared me for scenarios like this. "Don't take it personally," had been the catch-phrase in customer service, which was easy when you were distanced from the products and services you supported. After all, I hadn't personally paid the claim that Joe Customer was screaming about, and I didn't own the phone company that my friends threatened to boycott. I just worked there. 

But complaints about my corn? The corn I'd perspired my way through four weed-and-bug-infested rows to pick? From a woman who looked like she barely knew how to operate a can-opener, let alone shuck a dozen cobs without breaking a nail?

"Well," I said, after a pause during which I considered stabbing her with my pink umbrella, "it was kind of a dry summer."

"Humph," was all she said before she plinked some money into the jar and minced back to her SUV with half-dozen of my "small" cobs in her bag. 

"Never mind her," I whispered to my corny friends as I rearranged them in the cooler. "I think you're just right."

On the second day, I came out to find one of D's uncles filling up a bag. I was tickled to think that one of D’s relatives, flush with agricultural knowledge and experience, would stop to try some of our corn. We chatted about the heat as he filled his bag, but the words stopped coming out of my mouth when D’s uncle casually chucked a cob over his shoulder into the ditch.

“No good,” he said without looking up.

"Oh,“ was all I could manage.

"Some other ones were no good either, so I just chucked ‘em for you.”

"Right," I said, looking at the ditch. “I guess I’m kind of new at this.” 

“That’s okay,” said D’s uncle with a smile as he tossed another reject over his shoulder. “You’ll get the hang of it.” 

I resisted the urge to rescue the cast-offs when he left, and vowed to be more choosy during my next round of picking. 

I'd put a sign out in the morning to indicate "MORE CORN AT 3 p.m." so that customers would know to expect fresh stuff in the afternoon. My hope was to catch all the people coming home from work between 3 and 5 p.m. and entice them with sweet corn for their suppers. 

The sign caught at least one guy’s attention; as I pulled the truck up one afternoon, I saw a car parked at the end of our driveway with a young man leaning against it. It was 2:55 p.m.

As I hopped out of the truck, he called, “Right on time!” and dove into his back seat to retrieve two empty bags.

“You must really like corn,” I said as I filled up the cooler.

“I've actually never done this before,” he said, watching me intently.

I paused. “You’ve never bought sweet corn before?”

He shook his head. “Not from a real farmer.”

I almost swooned with pride. He thought I was a farmer! How cute.

“We live in Thunder Bay,” he continued, hovering behind me, “but we’re visiting my parents at a cottage and my daughter loves corn. I saw your sign this morning, and, well....”

I smiled encouragingly and waved him toward the cooler. “Well, you won’t get it any fresher than this. Help yourself.”

He hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other. “How do you pick a good one?”

Buddy, I thought, you are so asking the wrong person. I winged it.

“Well, uh, the heavier ones are more...mature. So they taste...chewier. The lighter coloured cobs are younger, and sweeter. So it depends on what you prefer, I guess.” Then I sighed and decided to be perfectly honest. “And some of the cobs are a little small, because we had such a dry summer.”

I saw his eyes flick over to the towering, robust rows of my father-in-law’s field corn beside our laneway.

“Um, that’s feed corn. For cows,” I told him. “Not the same thing.”

Thunder Bay guy looked embarrassed. I felt bad. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that I didn’t know the difference between cow corn and sweet corn. To make up for it, I told him to take an extra half dozen for free since he was from out of town. His face lit up. 

And so it went for the next ten days. Some customers were so sunny and pleasant, and so appreciative of being able to buy fresh corn that I wanted to give it to them for free. And some...well, I just wanted to feed them corn smut.

We sold almost everything we picked, but since we planted late and the summer was so hot, our yields weren't good and sales seemed to be over before they'd begun. We almost broke even on what D paid for seed, which I thought was pretty good for our first year. We even had people come to the door asking if we had any left. It was deeply satisfying to say, "Come back next year."

I packed up my sign and umbrella for the season, and shared a giggle with the bank teller when I deposited approximately ten pounds of rolled coins. Kimber of the corn was done for the year, having survived smut, raccoons, heat and the occasional insult. And best of all, I'd passed hubby's "test" without asking for help.

"You did good, Kimmy," D said as we walked back to the field and surveyed the dried-out husks and stalks that remained. "Next year, we'll do even better."

Damn right we will!

Kimber of the Corn - Part I: The Pickin'

August can be such a hazy, lazy month. The last long days of summer should be spent shaking sand out of your bikini, blowing bubbles in the backyard and eating gallons of ice cream. I'd spent a good chunk of August harvesting sunflowers, but now that the pink umbrella had been packed away, I was ready to relax.

Which is precisely when D informed me it was high time we began selling our sweet corn. By which he meant that it was high time I began selling our sweet corn.

Back in July, we had agreed the corn harvest would become my job, since I no longer had an actual job. Now it was August. D was taking the kids to daycare, leaving me ample opportunity to get down and get funky with the corn. As I chased my children around the driveway, it occurred to me that there were a lot of corn picking details I probably should have worked out earlier.

"So what do I do?" I asked.

"Kimmy, it's simple," D said as he squished Dylan into his carseat. "You pick the corn. You put it in the back of the truck. You drive it out by the side of the road and wait for the Bruce Beachers to come and buy it."

I leaned in for one of Jade's enthusiastic goodbye kisses. "But how much should I pick?"

He shrugged and climbed into the car. "I don't know, probably about twenty dozen."

I did the mental math and threw my hands in the air. "Holy crap, you want me to pick two hundred and fifty four cobs of corn in one day?"

"No, Shakespeare," said D, "I want you to pick two hundred and forty." He grinned his creased, charming grin and started the engine. "Better get picking, Kimmy."

And with that helpful advice, my darling man left me alone with a thousand cornstalks and no real clue what to do with them. I figured it was another one of his country boy tests, the old, "Let's leave her alone and see how she does," routine. He'd done it before with both the zero-turn and the plumber, with mixed results. I suspected the lack of instruction was just a scheme to have a good a story to tell Carm during chores. I'd give those two a story, all right.

I decided that I was NOT going to Google "how to harvest sweet corn" or call my mother-in-law for advice. A country girl figured things out for herself. I would tackle this harvest on my own, just like I did with the sunflowers, and I would make this sweet corn operation a screaming success if it killed me. Although by now I knew better than to ask myself those five fatal words: "How hard could it be?" This little project would take some careful planning and a lot of coffee. And maybe some Bailey's.

First, I had to consider my wardrobe. I'd learned from my sunflower experiences that boots, pants and a long-sleeved shirt were a must. Even though the day was going to be hot, if seemingly benevolent sunflowers could give me a rash and subject me to bee attacks, I shuddered to think about what the corn had in store for me. Was there such a thing as corn bugs? I dug out one of D's old thermal shirts and my thickest garden pants.

Next, corn gathering equipment had to be collected. I rummaged through the hall closet for ideas. Grocery bags? Knapsack? Empty beer cases? Then I found it: a purple cloth sack, left behind on one of my sister's recent visits. She'd brought it stuffed full of laundry and hard cider, but it looked strong enough and big enough to hold a few dozen cobs of corn. Plus I could sling it over one shoulder, like a jaunty pioneer. And purple was my favourite colour.

Finally, I needed a hat. Something with a brim that wouldn't get blown off by the strong south breeze, or turn me into a literal redneck. I whittled it down to two choices: my tye-dyed floppy Y2K hat that someone had given me in an office Christmas exchange in 1999, or D's fancy new Tilley hat, still stiff with newness and tags attached. I took the Tilley. Someone was going to stain it with sweat and dirt at some point; might as well be the poor girl stuck picking corn.

I tied Tilly around my neck and clambered into the truck. I was getting used to trucking and little details like how to adjust the bench seat without crushing my ribs against the steering wheel and telling the difference between the gearshift and the windshield wipers no longer fazed me. In fact, I kind of liked the truck. The only part I didn't like was getting in or out of the truck bed. When we were kids, my sister and I took flying leaps from the back of my Dad's truck onto gravel roads and ditches. Now, I take on the pose of a constipated skier, bending over as low as I can go before I tiptoe off the edge into the softest grass available. I would have to arrange the corn in the back so no truck bed experiences would be necessary. With these details mentally arranged, I revved the engine and bumped off into the alfalfa field in search of corn.

A band of fir trees flanked the east end of the cornfield, so I parked there, thinking to leave the truck in a bit of shade. As I killed the engine, I noticed movement in the tall weeds beside the passenger door. I froze. Snake? I thought. The weeds rustled more vigorously. Big freaking snake? Family of big freaking snakes?

Before I could roll up the window, five chubby raccoons burst out of the weeds and tore up the side of a fir tree. I exhaled with relief. They watched me balefully as I cranked up the radio and got out of the truck. I stuck my tongue out at them.

I turned to survey the task at hand.

Somehow, the half acre of corn seemed a lot bigger than the half acre of sunflowers. Was it an optical illusion, or had those wretched boys planted more corn than they'd told me about? Panic attacked me like an angry raccoon. How in heaven's name was I going to pick all this corn? Where would I even start? And how would I know the difference between a good cob and a bad one? WHY HAD D LEFT ME ALL ALONE?!

Breathing giant yoga breaths through my nose, I tried to calm down. I would not give the boys any stories to tell in the barn. I would not resort to Google. I would do this job on my own and I would do it just fine. If I could handle 17 years of office politics, I could tackle a bunch of vegetables. The hardest journey started with a single cob, right?

I hung my purple corn sack off one shoulder, clamped Tilly on my head and into the whispering sea of stalks I went. I'd be Kimber of the corn with a vengeance.

The Sunflower Project - Part IV: The End

I must have dozed off in Nana's chair, because it was after 10 a.m. when I heard the sound of the phone ringing. I dashed to answer it. Maybe it was someone calling to pre-order sunflowers.

It was Carm.

"So how are sales going?" he asked.
"Fine," I said.
"How many have you sold?"
"Um, I don't know. Probably lots," I said.
"How many's lots?"
"Geez Carm, I just got them out there at 8 o'clock. Give people a chance!"

There was a pause on the other end of the phone. I could hear my brother-in-law's morning scruff scraping the receiver. He was probably making a "told-you-so-Kimmy" face.

"They are going to sell, Carman," I told him. "People want sunflowers. Trust me."
"Okay Kimmy," he said, not bothering to sound convinced. "Whatever you say. Bye."

I hung up, and went back to the front porch. I couldn't see the buckets from the window. Maybe fifty cents a sunflower was too much. I'd bunched smaller ones together, 5 for $2, which seemed like a deal compared to the starchy, margarine coloured $8 bouquets at Sobey's, but maybe I'd overcharged. I chewed my lip. Maybe I'd just go out and check.

Before I could throw open the patio door, a gold SUV slowed, then pulled into our lane. I froze. Did the mail man get a new car? Was this just another person using our lane to turn around in? Or was it...a customer?

A woman got out of the SUV and walked purposely toward the sunflower buckets. The rest of the action was hidden from my view by our blue spruce trees and I wished I'd installed a video surveillance camera inside the pink umbrella. I pressed myself up against the glass, trying to see what the woman was doing, how many she might be buying. When she walked back to her SUV, her arms full of sunflowers, I let out a little whoop. Yes! I was right! They were selling! Stupid Carman.

Day 1 profits were excellent. I only had ten wilted sunflowers left by 4 p.m. and my money jar jangled with toonies and loonies. The operation would have been more efficient had I actually kept track of how many sunflowers were in the $2 bucket vs. the 50 cent bucket, but that was a minor detail. Cash was cash. When I fanned out the dough on the kitchen counter that night for D's approval, he looked shocked. His expression alone made the bee attacks worthwhile. Now I just needed to see the same look on Carm's face and I could die happy.

On Day 2, I was up early again, and chopped down another forty sunflowers. This time I kept careful track. I had the kids at home with me, so there was no time to supervise the stand. It was well after 5 p.m. before I remembered to check the jar. I took Jade and Dylan down the lane with me, telling them all about Mummy's new business. They liked the pink umbrella. I smiled and did a little dance of entrepreneurial glee when I saw that only four sunflowers were left. But - horrors! - after counting the money and checking my totals, I discovered that I'd been ripped off $4.00! What the what?

I dialled Carm immediately.

"I got ripped off!" I yelled into the phone. "I'm four dollars short! What the hell is up with that?"

"Well, Kimmy," he said, "sometimes that happens. Did you sell a few?"

"I sold more than a few, but that is not the point," I said. "The point is that some people didn't pay! That is so rude!"

"Maybe you're charging too much," said Carm.

I should have known better than to look for sympathy from Mr. Pessimist Farmer. I growled a goodbye and hung up. I decided to empty the money jar twice a day.

Day 3 sales were a bit slower. I found several extra nickels where there should have been quarters, and hoped this phenomenon was a result of customers with poor eyesight or tourists who couldn't tell a beaver from a caribou, rather than people being cheap. When I went to get the mail, I found a loonie under my stack of letters. I didn't know if it was a peace-offering from Carm, or whether a guilt-ridden soul had driven back to pay what they owed. Either way, it made me feel a little less misanthropic.

On Day 5, I chopped down seven giant sunflower heads that had begun to dry. D had informed me that the seeds were of "confectionary" quality, so I thought perhaps people might enjoy eating them. I plopped the heads into Jade's kiddie pool and dragged the whole thing out to the end of the driveway. "Dry your own sunflowers! Fun for the kids! $5 each" I wrote in orange marker. At the end of the day, none had sold. When I mentioned it to D, he looked at me like I'd told him I was selling used underwear.

"Are you nuts?" he said. "Five dollars? Who's gonna pay five dollars for a dried-up sunflower head? Kimmy, you're crazy."

I stroked out "$5" and wrote "My husband says that's crazy. Now $2 each." I sold three more.

I was getting used to the early mornings, and began to enjoy that first moment out of the truck: just me, Pinky, the sunflowers and a few startled deer or a shower of goldfinches for company. I learned to shake the bees off the flowers first, then snick after. I discovered other cool insects to show to the kids: triangle bugs, yellow ladybugs, iridescent blue-green beetles. My pink umbrella made several bids for freedom; once I found it in the cornfield, once across the road in the ditch. Once, I came out to find all the sunflowers had been sold but there was no money jar in sight. I panicked until I saw that someone had kindly hidden it behind the table. I was getting used to people beeping at me in a friendly way if I was out setting up. A few times I even met customers, all of whom were gracious and yes, smiling at the sunflowers.

The list on the fridge with the tally of sunflowers picked vs. sunflowers sold and the money I'd earned grew longer and longer, until a few weeks had passed and I realized that there weren't any more big sunflowers left to pick. The field of friendly yellow faces had become a field of praying grey nuns, with dark heads bowed towards the sunrise. Sunflower season was over.

I felt sad; I'd just gotten used to having my little business, and apart from being shortchanged a few bucks here and there, I thought I'd worked out the kinks admirably. And most importantly, I'd proved the Lowry boys wrong by making an impressive little chunk of change. For a former city-dweller, nothing tastes sweeter than hearing a country guy tell you they were wrong about something agricultural.

"Well," I told Carm that night as I plopped my earnings back into the sunflower jar, "I guess that's it for this year. Whatever will I do with all my free time?"

"Don't worry, Kimmy," replied my grinning brother-in-law. "Pretty soon you'll have sweetcorn to pick."

You can't get the best of a country boy for long.

Anatomy of a Jonah Morning

5:45 a.m.
(THUMP! Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump)

5:46 a.m.
A small missile in the shape of a toddler lands directly on my abdomen.

Me: OOOF!
Dylan: Hiya Mammy, whadaryou dooooing?
Me: I am sleeping. Go away.
Dylan: Wanna go downtairs?
Me: No.
Dylan: Wanna go downtairs?
Me: No. Wanna cuddle?
Dylan: Nooooooo! Downtairs? Downtairs? Downtairs?

We go downstairs.

6:05 a.m.
There is wet cereal all over the floor. It is also in Dylan's hair, ears and between his toes. I blearily attempt to make coffee and check my email while he runs back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, trailing milk and smushed Shreddies and screeching the theme song to My Big Big Friend. Thank God my daughter is sound sleeper.

6:07 a.m.
Dylan: (Enters waving the empty case to his John Deere tractor DVD) Watch twactors? Watch twactors?
Me: We can't honey. I don't know where the DVD is. I think you lost it.
Dylan: WAHAAHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! Watch twactors?

I find a YouTube video of a John Deere hay baler. Dylan squeals in glee and insists on watching from the comfort of my lap.

6:15 a.m.
Attempt to change my son's diaper. He kicks like a mule on fire. I take him to the corner and forcibly hold him there. When the 10 seconds are up, he tilts his head backwards like the exorcist kid and grins. We return to the change area and resume diaper changing. He shrieks so loudly my vision blurs. Back to the corner. Return, repeat.

6:17 a.m.
Try once again to change Dylan's diaper. He freaks out. I remind myself that I do not believe in spanking. I count to ten in my head. Twice.

6:18 a.m. I get Dylan's diaper off. It is full of avocado poop, because that is all he will eat. Dylan flips around and puts his foot in the poopy diaper, then steps on my bare leg. I grab him. He slaps me in the face. I start to cry and yell for my husband. He arrives, receives similar treatment from his son and marches upstairs with Dylan under one arm. More wailing ensues. I sit on the couch and sniffle. The living room smells like poo. So does my leg.

6:19 a.m.
Jade wakes up.

6:25 a.m.
Jade goes to the toilet, brushes her teeth, dresses herself. She comes downstairs and tells me she loves me. I remind myself that I do not favour one child over the other and get her some breakfast.

6:28 a.m.
Dylan toddles down the stairs and parks himself in front of the TV like nothing has happened. I slump onto the couch and start to doze.

6:29 a.m.
My son climbs up on the couch and starts using it like a bouncy castle. I become the best part of the bouncy castle. He leaps on me and gives me a fat lip.

7:00 a.m.
D and Jade are ready to go. I turn off the TV. Wailing and gnashing of teeth ensues. Drag my son out to the vestibule to get ready. Attempt to get his shoes and jacket on. He goes limp like a wet noodle and slithers out of my arms onto the floor. When I try to grab him, he reanimates and runs back into the living room, where he turns the TV on again. I wrench the plug out of the wall. Dylan collapses on the floor and has a fit. D grimly picks him up and carries him to the car.

7:05 a.m.
Buckle Jade into her car seat without incident. D goes into the house to get his lunch bag. I chase Dylan around the driveway and attempt to put him in his carseat.

Dylan: Wanna go to gramma's? Wanna go to gramma's?
Me: No, today you're going to Nina's.
Dylan: NOOOOO! WAHHHHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

7:07 a.m.
Stuff my son into his car seat. He throws a major tanty and alternates between rigid two-by-four and aforementioned wet noodle. I finally manage to buckle him up.
Me: "Ha! Gotcha in there!"
Dylan: (slaps me) "HA!" (pause) Go to Gramma's?

I start to cry. Again.

7:08 a.m.
Husband passes me on my way back into the house. He asks what's wrong. I consider telling him I'm a lousy mother and I'm too old to have small children and we never go on vacation and I'm so tired and I just want some coffee and I can't believe I lost my job but I am crying too hard. I slam the screen door to discourage further discussion.

7:10 a.m.
Finish crying.

7:12 a.m.
Pour favourite giant mug full of coffee. Trudge upstairs, crawl back into bed, close my eyes and desperately pretend this morning never happened.

The Sunflower Project: Part II - The Operation

In hindsight, expecting my husband to plant one measly row of sunflowers was like expecting me to eat one dill pickle chip. We just can't help ourselves.

D and Carm got their uncle's corn planter and rigged it up to put in half an acre of sunflower seeds - organic, no less - in my freshly ploughed former meadow. D scoffs at anything remotely organic, but he couldn't find regular sunflower seeds for sale at a price he liked. I suggested that he ask the farmer on the fourth concession, the one whose field I'd driven past. To my shock, D actually went to the guy and told him the story. How his wife wanted sunflowers. To look at. D said that the farmer looked perplexed, then gave D a pail of seed for free.

"See?" I told him. "Sometimes it pays to have a crazy wife."

I visited the field every other day, dragging the kids out to check for progress. I told them how beautiful it was going to be, and how Daddy and Uncle Carm had done it all for me. The half acre of corn, I pointedly ignored.

The kids didn't share my enthusiasm until the first plump sunflower sprouts popped out of the ground in July. Jade and I shouted with triumph; Dylan trampled as many as he could in a gleefully destructive frenzy. The sprouts had come up in uneven clumps, with big bare patches that drove D crazy and made Carm shake his head, but I didn't care. I had my field of dreams.

As I monitored the progress of our sunflower operation - which I began to refer to as "my" sunflower operation - it occurred to me that I'd need to paint a sign or two to attract customers. No one thought I would actually sell many; Carm, D, even my own father expressed their skepticism openly. But I just knew people would buy them. Who doesn't love sunflowers? Who doesn't enjoy slowing down for a roadside stand on a lazy summer day? Well, apart from my in-laws, that is. I kept my chin tilted at a proud angle and let the disbelievers scoff. They'd see soon enough that I was right.

Anyway, I figured the sign had to be special. I'd often rolled my eyes at other roadside vendors whose signs were sloppy or boring. My sign would be beautiful, artistic. No slapdash paint on a strip of plywood for MY sunflower operation.

A lazy drive along our road on the August long weekend produced a windfall. Up here, everyone leaves garage sale leftovers by the side of the road for easy pickings, and long weekends are garage salers' dreams. I found a huge wooden easel and a smaller styrofoam sign with a blank back, just begging to be decorated. The gods that smile on enterprising small-business owners were smiling down on me for sure, although Jade was concerned that I was stealing other people's stuff. "Shhh, honey," I told her. "This is called recycling."

I spent the good part of that evening trem-cladding everything bumblebee yellow before I realized that I didn't have any other paint for the lettering. A quick rummage through Jade's craft box produced a bottle of purple paint and some ratty brushes. I proceeded to write the word "SUNFLOWERS" in swirly, curlicue letters, creating a giant sunflower in the middle using the "L" as the stem. It looked a bit like a purple hedgehog on a stick, but hey, it was "arty." Carm dropped in that night and I found him standing in the vestibule, surveying my handiwork. His silence spoke volumes. I ignored his lack of artistic judgement and took the signs out to set against the garage to finish drying.

Putting up with yellow tremclad under my fingernails and my brother-in-law's scorn would have been easier had the purple paint I'd used for the hedgehog lettering not melted off during that night's rainstorm. Apparently children's paint is not waterproof. I said many bad words, and hid the signs before D could see them. If I drove to Canadian Tire, he'd know for sure about my screw up, and then he'd tell Carm, and then I'd never hear the end of it. I snuck out to the shop and rooted through D's bench of stuff for something, ANYTHING I could use to re-do the lettering before anyone saw the purple sludge. I found a can of black tremclad and got to work. Black and yellow were sunflower colours anyway.

Finally, the signs were ready to go. Now I needed to fix up a display. I found my old pink beach umbrella and shoved it in a pail of water softener salt. I rescued two small tables from the dusty obscurity of the shop, and slapped a waterproof tablecloth that had been my mother's on top. Two big buckets stood ready and waiting to be filled with flowers. I found my peanut butter money jar, and my old bull-terrier plastic piggy bank. I tied a purple bow around his neck and wrote "SUNFLOWERS" on his side with a Sharpie. Everything went into the bed of our newly acquired truck; I was nearly ready. All I had to do was harvest.

But that would be the easy part, right?