5 Things…I didn't do on March Break

Ahhhh, March break. Nine (that's NINE) days of uninterrupted quality time with my children. Enough time to take a trip somewhere, or plan fun and exciting daily excursions. You know, museums, parks, swimming, skating, hiking, ice fishing, skiing, sap-collecting. Because spring break is about doing all the things things as a family that you normally don't have time for.

Or not.

This March break was not what I'd pictured. Never mind the fact that we passed around a violent stomach bug like a diseased hot potato ("Here, you have it!" - BARF! - "No, you have it!" - SHART! - "I know, let's give it to our poor, unsuspecting cousin. Catch! - RALPH! -). We just didn't really DO anything. I suppose there's nothing wrong with that; there's a lot of pressure on parents to DO STUFF and MAKE IT MEMORABLE, especially during March break. To be honest, I don't even remember what we did last year. I asked my daughter and she just shrugged. Whatever we did, I'm sure it was at least moderately fun. Probably.

The year before that, we went to Florida. But that doesn't count as a fabulous March break, because neither kid was in school at the time. I'm sure we won't remember much about this slightly miserable break either. But man, I had plans! I had ideas! Plus I didn't realize how out of practice I was having the kids home for long stretches of time. I'm used to a nice chunk of quiet between our morning shuffle and the evening frenzy. I'd forgotten about the Sisyphean task of cleaning a house while children are still in it. I'd forgotten how much TV they want to watch. I'd forgotten how to juggle puke bowls and towels and the awful necessity of a middle-of-the-night-sheet-and-pyjama-change. Boy, do I remember it all now.

So here are 5 Things I didn't do on March break, in no particular pathetic order.

1. Go to Kindergym.
Got the kids up, fed, dressed and excited about Kindergym. Drove 20 minutes into town. Made children peel off four layers of outerwear. Realized gym was filled with women doing Zumba because Kindergym was NOT ON TODAY because TODAY WAS NOT SATURDAY. Plied kids with doughnuts and empty promises to stop the whinging.

2. Write.
By the time the kids were in bed, I only had the mental capacity to play online Scrabble very, very badly.

3. Do something fun as a family.
D worked the entire week, which was unavoidable but still sucky. Dylan and I made it to visit my sister Tanzi and hit the butterfly conservatory for an hour before the crowds freaked us out. I guess mooching dinner off Grandma several times that week kind of counts as a family activity.

4. Have a romantic date with my husband.
D had a worse week than I did. Plus nothing puts a damper on hanky panky quite like finding a child sleeping in your bed covered in his own vomit.

5. Swim. Skate. Go to a museum. Go the freaking library. GO SOMEWHERE. GO ANYWHERE! AHHHHH!

So what did we do? Well, we painted the hell out of every toilet paper roll and pine cone in the house. We cuddled. Imagined. Sang. Tickled. Planted. Baked. Told each other how much it stunk to be sick over March break and celebrated with chocolate cake when we got well.

It wasn't the best of times, it wasn't the worst of times. We did get to relax and hang out in our PJs with no real routine or schedule pricking us in the conscience, which was pretty cool. I think I so got caught up in what I wanted to do with the kids that I kind of forgot to ask them what they wanted to do. It was their break, after all. Turns out there's a big difference.

Last night, as we snuggled down for our bedtime routine, I asked my daughter whether she'd had a good March break, mentally shuddering as I anticipated her answer. "Oh Mumma," she sighed from the depths of her comforter. "It was SO GOOD. I got to wear my pyjamas EVERY DAY and hardly had to go anywhere!"

I guess next year I'll try not to be such a doofus and take a cue from my kids.

5 Things…I really suck at

1. Buying anything related to technology
It all started when I bought D an iPad for Christmas. He keeps stealing my much-adored MacBook to check boring stock prices and look up hockey plays, which is annoying. I mean, I bought that thing as a tool for my writing, and for keeping our family photos updated and…okay, I use it mainly to play Scrabble. But still! It's MINE. So I though it was a stroke of brilliance when I decided to buy him a gadget of his own, something that wasn't too expensive (he hates it when people spend money on him), something portable enough for him to take to the bathroom if he so desired. I bought a reconfigured iPad off the internet and lo and behold! IT. SUCKS. Apparently, it's one of the first versions that was released, which means that it won't play NetFlix, or take photos, or basically do anything other than allow you to search Google. Very. Slowly.

"Didn't you do any research before you bought this?" asked D, trying not to act like he hated it, although I could tell he did.

"It was on sale! I thought I was buying something good! I thought you'd be glad I didn't spend too much money!" I wailed.

"Kimmy…just, wow," said D.

He still steals my MacBook and the iPad is gathering dust somewhere. I tried to redeem myself by buying a charger for Jade's LeapPad (seriously, who makes an expensive children's toy and sells it without a charger?). Once again, I thought I'd save money and make D proud. So I went on the internet and bought a knock off. Which didn't work. So I tried again, and ended up with pretty much the same gadget, which…also doesn't work.

D has made me solemnly swear that I will never again buy anything remotely electronic.

2. Cooking Meat
I suppose it's because I lived with someone who did the majority of my cooking for ten years, but I've never learned how to cook meat so that it tastes…you know, edible. Ground meat is no problem. Who can screw up hamburger? Big cuts of meat, on the other hand, like pork chops, roasts, even steak, turn into very unhappy meals in my vegetarian-inclined hands. I can whip up any type of chicken and make it taste heavenly, and I have been known to do lamb chops to near perfection. But anything else? You're looking at dry, tasteless disasters. Bake, poach, grill, microwave, doesn't matter. I get the same disgusting result. And do NOT tell me I need a crockpot, because…

3. Crockpots
I hate them. That is all. Need proof? Here: and here:

So there.

4. Finishing a cup of anything.
At any given time, on any given day, you can travel through my house and find at least one (but probably more like four) unfinished cups of coffee, half-empty glasses of water or mugs of stagnant tea. I am incapable of drinking anything to the dregs, unless it's a glass of wine. Even beer falls prey to this habit, and I love beer. I think it has something to do with the time my sister Sissy told me never to drink the last bit of beer in a bottle, because it was just backwash. So really, this is all her fault. I'm not sure why, but this little habit of mine drives D completely bonkers. I am pretty confident that 33 years from now, on our 25th anniversary, he'll be yelling at me across the nursing home: "HEY KIMMY, YOU FORGOT TO FINISH THIS BOTTLE OF ENSURE!"

5. Wrapping Stuff
There are about a squillion Pinterest posts (pins? pings? pints? See, I suck at Pinterest too) on how to wrap a present so gorgeously that the recipient of said present will squeal and then faint in awe. I wish I was artistic enough to figure out how to do even one thing on Pinterest, let alone wrap a measly box of whatever. Don't get me wrong. I want to be that woman, the one who uses bits of ribbon and stray buttons and dryer lint to create a unique and gloriously gift wrapped present for every member of the family on Christmas. But I'm not. I can't wrap to save my life, and I know why: it's because I am not patient, and I am a jammer, and I leave wrapping until the last minute because if I didn't, my children would seek and destroy all the gifts before they even made it under the tree. I can't even wrap a fajita. I made my little niece a vegetarian wrap for lunch when she was here a few weeks ago. As I put it in front of her she looked at it unfurling on her plate like a bizarre, slow-motion film of a really ugly flower blossoming, then looked up at me. She did not say a word of complaint, but her big brown eyes said it all: "Auntie Kim, you suck at wrapping."

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.

Five Things About...a Week at the Cottage

Beach Bum (okay, just a bum)
We’ve been at my Aunt’s cottage on Bruce Beach since last Tuesday, and I’m suffering from a complete lack of motivation to do anything other than eat, read and drink a lot of coffee. Having two active kidlets with me the whole time has put the kibosh on engaging in any of these activities for more than ten minute intervals, but lemme tell you, there hasn’t been much writing, facebooking, laundry, bed making or even hair styling or underwear-wearing going on. It must be something to do with the constant rush of waves in the background. Maybe it’s the way the aspen trees whisper their secrets to one another all day. Or the feel of soft grass and warm sand on my toes. Possibly it’s the lazy drone of bumblebees, the chorus of cardinals and robins and chickadees, the rhythmic, tiny buzz-saw of cicada songs. Whatever it is, I do not want to do anything that even remotely resembles work, unless it involves eating or opening a bottle of wine. And that’s fine with me.

Good Eats
There’s something to be said for cooking in a kitchen that is not your own. You have to hunt for utensils (where IS the cheese grater, anyway?), discover which pot goes where (wow, my aunt stacks her pans together with almost architectural flair) and figure out what ingredients you have on hand before you can decide what to make. It’s fun, because cooking rarely feels like work to me, and I’m enjoying the whole scavenger hunt aspect as well. Plus the lake air gives me a huge appetite, so planning and executing supper every evening is a pleasure. Some of my favourite dishes so far:
- baby zucchinis, stuffed with onion, garlic, salty breadcrumbs and cheese, then barbecued to perfection
- walnut pesto with basil picked from the neighbour’s garden (with their permission, of course)
- vegetable ribbons with a sweet, creamy peanut sauce
- slabs of salmon glazed with maple syrup
- hot dogs and hamburgers scorched just right on the barbecue, served with thick slices of fresh tomato and sweet onion
- my friend Ruthie’s Greek salad, made with chunks of crisp, garden-grown cucumbers and juicy tomatoes
- the best ever banana muffins, thanks to the perfectly squishy bananas my aunt left behind (and the fact that I did not bring any whole wheat flour or bran to healthify them)
- a sour cream peach pie, made with slurpy Niagara peaches and my mother-in-law’s secret recipe
The only problem? Cooking = dishes, which counts as work. Which I clearly have no motivation whatsoever to do. Thank goodness for the dishwasher. And D.

Sleep, or lack thereof
Normally when I come to the cottage, I sleep like a satisfied baby. But weirdly, this year I haven’t been sleeping well at all. I chalk that up mostly to Dylan’s refusal to go to bed at a decent hour, or stay in his own bed once he does fall asleep. That kid is has become a menace after 9 p.m.. You’d think hours of sun and sand and running amok in the water would turn him into a zombie once the sun goes down, but it hasn’t. Jade, on the other hand, has built herself a nest of every spare pillow and blanket in the cottage. She staggers into her room at the end of each day, burrows into the pile and pretty much conks out until morning. Meanwhile, her brother either falls into an inconvenient coma around 6 p.m. and wakes up around 3 a.m. looking to party, or simply refuses to go to bed at all. Last night D decided he’d had enough, and physically blockaded the door to Dylan’s room. Dylan sobbed, begged, howled and finally fell asleep on the floor beside his bed. But he stayed there, miraculously, until about seven this morning. Which meant that for the first time in a week, I had a full, glorious night’s sleep. I woke up feeling sparkly and sunshiny, with enough energy to go for a long walk on the beach. A holiday at the cottage just isn’t complete without a good night’s sleep, so at least I had at least one...

Sunset and Moonrise
There are two things I’m either too sleepy or too busy to appreciate very often back at Someday: sunsets and moonrises. At the cottage, however, it’s an unspoken ritual for cottagers to come out and watch the sun melt into the horizon. We’ve had the good luck this week to have the moon waxing full, so our friend Luna appears to shine over our left shoulders as we say goodnight to the sun. Best of all, Jade and I have been taking sunset kayak rides each night, which I absolutely love. She trails her little fingers in the water, and we have conversations about this and that while I paddle, like whether we prefer the sun or the moon, and whether God is in charge of the world, and why pink really is the best colour in all of the universe. Dylan runs away every time I suggest a kayak ride; I wonder if he’s telepathically intercepted my occasional desire to dump him in the lake as payback for keeping me awake all week. No matter. It’s a special time for Jady and me, and I’m content to bid goodnight to the sun with her each night amidst the peace and stillness of the lake while Dylan regards us suspiciously from the shore.

Summer’s Almost Over...again
I can hear it in the increased volume of cricket songs at night. I can see it when the poplar leaves flip up and show me their pale underbellies. I can sense it in the sand that is cool under my feet at night instead of warm from a day’s heat. As much as I hate to admit it, summer is almost over. There is a wistfulness stirring inside me during our last few days at the cottage; even as the kids and I run and laugh until we’re breathless from playing sprinkler tag, even as we build and decorate sandcastles, even as I help them paint rocks, I know that this is the last summer we’ll be so carefree. Jady starts school in the fall; Dylan is changing and growing before my eyes; I may be going back to work before long. We’ll hopefully have more summers at the cottage together, but my kidlets won’t ever be this little, or this untroubled by responsibility again. With every leaf that swirls down and lands on the deck, and every degree the temperature drops each night, I’m reminded of how we can have enough of everything except time. This week has been fun, and tiring, and full of activity and so very precious to me. I supposed the only way to hold on to these memories is to let them happen, then let them go, knowing I can return to them whenever I need to steady myself in the whirlwind of autumn days to come.

Five things about...A Mother of a Day

What do you think of when you realize that Mother's Day is around the corner? Sloppy but well-intentioned breakfasts in bed, home-made cards festooned with sparkles and stickers, bear hugs and giggles? Visits to someone's home, apartment, nursing home or hospital bed? A quiet drive to the cemetery? Or maybe a card in the mail, a phone call, or a passing pang of guilt for cards unsent and phones left untouched?

Mother's Day has been kinda weird for me ever since my mother died back in 1992. And it's gotten progressively weirder since I lost babies of my own, then had two healthy children. I honestly don't know what to do with myself when that hallowed Sunday in May rolls around. Do I allow myself to be pampered and showered with extra attention, or do I wring my hands and grieve what might have been? Do I celebrate the contented mothers in my life or reach out to those for whom the day is pure torture? I don't know that there's a right answer to that question. So I did a bit of both.

1) Hot Coffee
After a good night's sleep (a rarity at Someday due to my son's penchant for nocturnal roaming), I enjoyed an uncharacteristically mellow morning with the kids while D did chores for his mother. We'd had a crazy day on Saturday with a combined birthday party for Jade and her cousin, so it was a relief to wake up and realize I had nothing to do. I set Dylan up with his breakfast in front of his favourite video, then invited Jade to watch her latest internet fascination - Teletubbies - seriously - on my laptop in bed with me. This meant I could drink my coffee and Baileys while it was still hot, people....still hot! If you have neither pets nor kids, you might not appreciate the enormity of this achievement. But trust me, it's big. I read my book - Cheryl Strayed's incredible memoir, Wild - cuddled with Jady and listened with one ear to Dylan whoop it up downstairs a la Team Umizoomi. It was peaceful. It was pleasant. It was perfect.

And then D got home, the kids went ballistic and my coffee cup was empty. Still, it was an hour and a half of bliss. Wayyyy better than breakfast in bed or a macaroni card.

2) Holy Crepes!
After he'd shattered the peace by having an impromptu wrestling match with Dylan on our bed, D reminded me that I'd offered to go to the farm and make breakfast for his mother. Crap. So I crawled out of bed, whipped up some crepe batter, grabbed a pint of berries from the fridge and herded the kids into the car.

We were so late that I'd missed seeing my sister-in-law and nieces, who'd left for a different family gathering - oops. My mother-in-law had already set the table and concocted a gorgeous fruit tray, so I wasted no time getting the crepes going. I have my mother's old crepe pan and it never fails me. Bro-in-law Paul cooked eggs and peameal bacon, the kids ran around, Grandma whipped some cream to replace the stuff I'd forgotten at home and D made the toast.

It was a raucous, crowded, splattery half-hour and I felt weirdly relaxed, even in the midst of all the breakfast chaos. I think I must have made thirty crepes; we slathered them with Nutella, whipped cream and fruit and ate until we couldn't eat any more. I think my mom would have been pleased to see me carrying on her tradition; my grandmothers would have been proud of how many I snarfed back.

3) Sharing the Burden
The day before Mother's Day, I got on the phone to my favourite flower shop in Waterloo and placed a last-minute order. I'd meant to do it the week before; I guess the party details erased this task from my mental list. When the clerk asked me what I wanted to put on the card, I opened my mouth to tell her, but no words came out. Instead, I choked on a sudden suffocating wave of tears. I finally managed to say, "My friend lost her daughter last month," before the wave drowned my voice again.

The clerk paused for a moment. "Well, what about something like, 'Thinking of you?' Or, 'With warm thoughts at this difficult time?'"

I swallowed the tears and shook my head, not that she could see it. "No," I croaked, as a mixture of anger and helplessness bloomed in my chest. "No, no, NO."

I heard the clerk let out a small sigh on the other end of the phone. I knew I was placing a last-minute order on an insanely busy day for her store. I knew I'd begged her to tack it on to the last delivery time, but mother of pearl, didn't she GET IT? Shouldn't she know that there's nothing you CAN say on Mother's Day in the space of a tiny florist's card to someone who has lost a child? I clenched my teeth to bite back the urge to yell this at her.

"Just write, 'With love from the Lowrys,'” I finally said. It was banal, but true. All I could send them was our love. And a lot of frigging chocolate.

I sent my love to relatives and coworkers who have lost mothers and mothers-in-law; neighbours whose mothers are hopelessly ill; friends who have lost sisters, aunts, children. Mother's Day is no picnic for a lot of moms, no matter how many macaroni cards or pedicure gift certificates they get. It's not much fun for many guys either. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do except offer to share the burden of pain and grief and disappointment, so they know they aren’t carrying it alone.


4) The Hike
Every year on Mother's Day, I slip away for a few hours and take a long walk on my own. I used to go to the beach, but this year I tackled the Kincardine Trails.

The kids and I often do short treks through what they call “The Muddy Woods,” near the Penetangore River, but until recently, I had no idea that the trails can lead you for hours through woods and field, over bridges and up steep ravines, behind subdivisions and arenas. It’s blissfully silent, perfect for days where you want to think of everything, or nothing.

When you hike by yourself, your mind is free to wander, and your attention sharpens. There’s no conversation to distract you from the little details: a plunging kingfisher, the way the river talks to itself, a carpet of trilliums, the tiny perfection of a robin’s eggshell, the smell of snow in the air. (Yes, it snowed on Mother’s Day - apparently Mother Nature had PMS.)

I expected to feel sad, and cry a little. I usually do, thinking of the people I’ve lost and the mother I’ve become. This time I didn’t. Instead, I felt wistful. Like, what would life be like if Rose had lived? Or my mother had recovered from her cancer? Or my friend’s daughter had been born healthy? Fantasies ran unchecked through my brain as I panted for breath and stomped my way over bridges and up steep, muddy hills.

When I got to a small gap in the trees where the river rushed by, I stooped and picked up a handful of stones. I threw one into the river for each person I was missing: Bun. Rose. Baba and Nana. My mother. My friend’s daughter. It was a simple act, just a few splashes and ripples that disappeared as quickly as they’d been created. Then I had to laugh a bit, because wasn’t that life? We make our mark, but eventually our presence fades and we become part of something bigger. The stones are still there, even if you can’t see them. Maybe knowing they’re there is enough for now.

5) This Girl is on Fire
D’s family doesn’t really celebrate occasions like my family does. Birthdays come and go with a card and a cake - unless it’s for a grandchild, in which case the party lasts for several days. But Mother's Day, Father's Day, etc. are sort of shrugged at. So I don’t get too upset if I don't get a card from D or the kids. I prefer to spend the day in quiet contemplation, truth be told. Having a loving husband who tells me I’m a good mom almost daily and being able to enjoy the company of two healthy kids is gift enough.

This year, D astounded me with a spa gift certificate to a place I'd been raving about to my sister recently. I was so sure he wouldn’t get me anything that I went out and bought something for myself: an outdoor fire pit thingy! Oops.

So now I get to pamper myself at a fancy spa, AND enjoy a cosy fire any time I want. I think the kids are old enough to discover the sticky joys of roasted marshmallows and spider dogs, the spark and crackle of a bonfire and the way it feels to fall asleep in your mother's lap outside under the stars. I think that's all I really wanted for Mother's Day anyway.

5 Things ... about Spring at Someday

I haven't done the ol' "5 Things" blog posting in a while, and I've got what must be the most wretched sinus infection in all of Bruce County at the moment, so I think now is a perfect time to revive the 5 Things medium. It's quick and dirty, and still gets the point across. Plus a few readers wanted to read some springy stuff. And really, with April throwing snow at us and laughing, who doesn't want to read about spring?

Before I begin, may I just interject that I feel SO FREAKING MUCH BETTER than I did a month ago? I go around muttering prayers of thanks every thirty minutes to the powers that be. They're usually scattered thoughts having to do with the smell of coffee, the ability to wrestle and giggle with my feral children, feeling strength return to my legs as I hike the trails, watching my fingers slowly inch back to the keyboard and pen. I'm feeling the gratitude, big time.

As my kissin' cuz S mentioned the other day, there is a hum of eternal hope in the air this time of year. Sometimes you have to stop and listen for it; pause in the middle of crazy life to sniff the air, feel the sun on your face, realize the ground is squishy instead of frozen. I have dear friends whose cups are full of sorrow and pain right now, and spring isn't the usual mess of happy beginnings it should be for them. My wish is that they'll find flickers of hope returning as the snow melts and the flowers bloom.

So here's to spring, to healing, and to those inevitable 5 Things.

1. The Birds Are Gonna Getcha
All that early morning cawing and chirping and squabbling outside my bedroom window can mean only one thing: nature's answer to the Kardashians has returned to Someday. First to arrive are the delightfully cliquy redpolls, who flutter around en masse looking adorable in their little red hats and can gobble an entire bird-feeder's worth of seed in three hours. Apparently redpolls hang out in Alaska, so when this bird comes to your doorstep when it's minus 5 because it's looking to warm up, you know spring isn't far behind. The doofuses of the bird world, those confused looking robins who always seem to show up just in time for a nice shower of freezing rain, are here too. I see them shivering in the tree branches and looking aimlessly for worms that are too smart to be moving in the earth yet. Best of all, I've seen flocks of swans flying overhead like graceful ghosts, and covering bare fields in a white that's brighter than snow. Those hardy darlings are all the proof I need that winter is on its way out of town.

2. Muddy Muddy Mudskipper
I don’t remember doing battle with mud in the city during springtime the way I do up here. Apart from a few messy walks in the park with Neko, my car and floors remained relatively goop free. Then again, there were a lot of concrete alternatives to squishy lawns in Waterloo, and I didn’t have two small children who liked to dance in every brown puddle they saw.

With the return of sunshine and warm air to Someday comes the melting of previously frosted lawns and fields and gravel lanes, which morph into pools of brown, sticky sludge. You get coated in the stuff up to your ankles when you step out of the car or off the safety of the front walk. Even our paved driveway has been sliced open along its sides (courtesy of well-meaning snowploughs and delivery trucks) to reveal giant troughs of muddy water that lure my son like a siren does a sailor. And don’t get me started on the state of the barnyard and my in-law’s long, potholed, mud-soaked lane way. It reminds me of the roads in Russia: not fun.

The state of my car, not to mention my pant legs, mittens, boots and shoes, is equally unfun. Hiking the trails means risking multiple slides into muddy pitfalls and going to the park with the kids is a load of laundry waiting to happen.

Still, if mud = spring, then hooray for mud! Pretty soon the sun will dry everything up and I'll be praying for rain.

3) Walk toward the light...
We don’t have curtains in our bedroom, which most people find strange. It’s just that D and I spent so many hours sanding, staining and varnishing the wooden trim around the windows that when the house was finished, we couldn’t bear to have our beautiful trim hidden behind swaths of material. My side of the bed faces East, which, in the winter, isn’t a problem. I wake up to see birdies flitting around the ash tree and the dull, grey dawn crawling over the horizon. Spring forward into daylight savings time, though, and the dull grey dawn becomes a rosy glow, which quickly transforms into a laser beam that pierces my closed eyelids at 6 a.m. D, of course, loves it.

Then there are the indignant cries of my children at night when bedtime rolls around. “It’s not bedtime yet! It’s not darkie time yet! There’s still sun! WAHHHH!” goes the pathetic refrain. Unfortunately, their bedroom window faces West, which means they get every last gleam of sunshine across their faces as I attempt to convince them it's night time. Blackout curtains may be in their future.

The lengthening of days does make me smile around six o’clock each evening. As I putter around the kitchen making supper, the gorgeous glow of the sunset spreads across the barn, the apple trees and fields, slow as melted butter, drenching everything in hues of gold and cherry. It’s such a gift to have enough light at the end of the day to go for a walk with the kidlets before bedtime, and to see my husband come home without having to turn on his headlights. I guess I can forgive the early sunrise since the late sunset affords us these little pleasures. Although I may ask for a sleep mask for my birthday...

4. A wafer-thin crack...
D and I argue about many things: the state of chaos inside my car; the number of times he does chores; the fact that I never finish a full cup of anything; the benefits of cinnamon. All relatively harmless arguments, likely destined to spiral endlessly throughout our marriage. And the argument that tops all arguments, the one that will always resurface every spring for as long as we share a roof together, is open windows.

My father keeps several windows open in his cabin year round, regardless of whether it’s minus 20 or sweltering outside. Nana was the same way: I remember she’d have the air conditioning on, the bedroom windows open and a warmed up electric blanket for me whenever I slept over in the summer. They both believe that fresh air trumps any concerns about wasting electricity, or, as D sarcastically puts it, “killing the environment by heating North America.”

I know it’s spring when I can sneakily crack our bedroom window open and leave it that way all night without watching my perpetually chilly spouse do an exaggerated body shiver at bedtime while saying, “Geez, it’s cold in here. Is there a window open somewhere?” I’ve had our bedroom window open for two weeks now, and until he gets around to reading this blog (sometime in May, probably), D won’t even notice. By then, it should be warm enough to prevent his annual “I thought you were a Greenpeacer” open window rant.

I take comfort in the recent discovery that D’s mother and father are locked in a similar battle over their own bedroom window. She cracks it open, he slams it shut. It’s nice to know that my husband’s resistance to fresh air is hereditary, rather than a fit of pure marital cussedness.

5. Dirty fingernails
In the fall, I have the urge to collect and hoard. In the spring, my urges take a different direction: digging in the dirt. I might go outside to get something from the car, then suddenly I’m tearing dead grass out of the flower gardens by the back door, clearing spaces so the tulips can breathe, plucking dead stalks off the lambs' ears. My eyes greedily scout out new places for the golden climbing roses I intend to plant, and I hunt for the first snowdrops and crocuses in the south corner of the house. Then I come to my senses and wander back into the house, where it’s difficult to explain to the kids why Mummy has filthy hands and whatever she was supposed to get from the car is still out there.

Happy spring, everyone!

5 Memorable moments from Dylan's "it's not a party" birthday party

1. The fact that the little man was in fine humour the ENTIRE TIME. It was a birthday miracle. He was absolutely beyond miserable at the Fall Fair yesterday, so I didn't have high hopes for today's festivities. Mr. Dylan hates crowds. He dislikes being the centre of attention, and we recently discovered that "Happy Birthday" makes him cry. He's such a Lowry. But today, he took it all in stride and had a fine old time. In fact, he laughed for most of the day, gobbled up his lunch and cake, and charmed every woman in the room. Sometimes your kids surprise you in a good way.

2. D went to the field and dug up potatoes, put them through his new french fry slicer, and fried them in my dad's deep fryer to make some seriously wicked good french fries. When I asked him repeatedly why he was bothering to go through the whole rigamarole at the last minute, he replied, "Because my boy loves french fries. And it's his birthday." Can't argue with that.

3. In a misguided attempt to dye the cake icing monarch-butterfly-orange, I ended up making this frightening, nuclear orange coloured icing instead. Thankfully I used my mom's old cream cheese recipe (with a giant shot of Grand Marnier) so at least it tasted better than it looked.

4. 3 tractors, 2 fire trucks and 3 combines = excellent birthday loot.

5. No bouncy castle mishaps resulting in emergency room visits. Nothing caught on fire. No meltdowns that could not be contained. No broken wine glasses or china. And I even got to finish my piece of cake, drink a giant glass of wine and have a luxurious nap with D after the guests left. Now that, my friends, is the sign of a successful party.

5 Random Observations Whilst in Stratford

1. Remember when your English teacher would pounce on you and ask you to define irony? How about this: getting a free ticket to see Henry V, then getting a speeding ticket en route to see Henry V, the cost of which is more than if you'd paid for your freaking theatre ticket in the first place. Damn you, Shakespeare.

2. $10 for parking? PARKING??! After a $95 speeding ticket, buddy was NOT getting $10 for parking. No, rather than pay that high price, I decided it would be more fun to humiliate myself by entering the parking lot (there was a line of cars behind me), only to turn around and come out again. PSYCHE! Plus I only had $7.45 in my purse.

3. If only the thought, "Hey, the guy playing Henry really looks like Bruce McCulloch!" hadn't flashed through my mind during Act 1 Scene III, I might have enjoyed the actor's performance, instead of waiting for him to start singing "These are the Daves I Know" or dressing in drag.

4. BEST. $4.00. Intermission. Brownie. EVER.

5. Overheard moments after exiting the theatre:
American #1: I don't know what that flag was supposed to be at the end of the show.
American #2: I think I'd rather not know.
Me: (helpfully): It was a Canadian flag. They just had trouble raising it at the end.
American #1 (rolling eyes): Oh my God, I was hoping it wasn't. I mean, come on fellahs, let's not go there, ya know?
American #2: I know, and then they played that Revolution-y song at the end? Too much.
Me: So you're against the director's sly poke at French/English relationships as they relate to Canadian history? (actually, I didn't say this, but I wanted to...right after I stole their brownies. Mwah ha ha ha!)

5 Things I Think about When Choring

1. Is this cow gonna kick me? Please don't kick me. Oh crap, she's gonna kick me!! She's moving her foot!!! Ahhhh! Okay, she's not going to kick me. Is she?


2. Stupid, rotten, dirty, dirty cow. Who lays down in their own poop?

3. How many times do I have to wash this teat before that black stuff comes off? Come ON! Get clean!! GET - oh. That teat IS black. Oops.

4. D looks so freaking hot in those coveralls. Seriously. I'm going to pinch his butt next time he bends over to put a milker on.

5. Geez, my mother-in-law must have shrunk these coveralls. I can barely bend - (gasp!) - over. Hmm. Maybe I'm just fat. No, she probably shrunk them.

Five Things - from a preggo point of view

I know how darned lucky I am to be pregnant and relatively healthy, so far be it from me to moan and complain too much. There are so many folks who would kill to be in my situation, regardless of the sometimes unpleasant parts of pregnancy.

That being said, I feel compelled to say the following:

Five things I will deeply miss about being pregnant
1. The squirmy, kicky, hiccuppy feelings of new life swirling around in my belly.
2. How nice complete strangers are to me. Last week a guy helped me load my groceries into my car; this week two ladies stopped to tell me all about their pregnancies and how they had their kids really close together too.
3. Having boobs.(Seriously! A-cup girls will understand.)
4. The delicious, almost surreal quality sleep takes on...for the first 7 months, anyway. Sleep becomes as pleasurable and tangible as eating your favourite food.
5. Talking and singing to the little being inside me.

Five things I will be happy never to have to experience again
1. The bizarre "restless leg" syndrome that strikes every night around 3am. I feel strong urges to kick something - the bed, the covers, my husband - and I have to roll out of bed and do stretches to alleviate the weirdness.
2. Uterine cramps. Bloody hell, do they hurt! It's like baby has a little penknife and enjoys occasionally jabbing it into my abdomen. MD says I "have an educated uterus" and it's simply stretching and preparing for labour, no matter how many times I've told it we're having a C-section.
3. People who enjoy saying things like, "My God, you're huge!" or "Huh, you guys didn't wait long to get at 'er again."
4. Not being able to put cream or polish on my toes. Or pick up anything I drop. Or bend over to smell my roses.
5. The endless nightly marches to the bathroom. It's so unfair that pregnant women have the thirst of camels without the helpful storage humps.

But you know what? It's all good. Honest.

So yeah, we've got less than a month to go and no names yet. Gah! September 22nd is looming large and I am counting my blessings since I can't count my toes anymore. (0:

Sorry for the long absence from bloggy land folks. Hope all is well with y'all out in cyberspace.

5 Things I love about...

To commemmorate having achieved my 1000th comment (THANKS my bloggy friends! You rock!), I think I'll start a new series. Every month, I'm going to list some stuff I love. Don't get me wrong: I'm not becoming Pollyanna or Anne Shirley or (shudder) Oprah. Wenching, whinging and venting are highly necessary in many cases and will still occur on a regular basis in this blog. Consider these love-ins small antidotes to the grouchies.

Today, I present: Things I love about my house. You know, I really loved my old yellow brick house in Waterloo, but you could fit about 3 of them in our place here at Someday. There was hardly any closet space at 139 Moore and the neighbours were so close you could reach out the window and patty cake them if they did the same thing. Living here makes me feel like a woman instead of a girl, and that is a good thing. Why? Here are 5 reasons:

1) The heated floor in the bathroom

I was prepared to live with a run-down, beat up bathroom, avocado-green tiles and all, since we were spending so much on insulation and windows. And then the contractor showed me the mould behind the tiles. And under the floor. And behind the walls. And voila! A great reason to re-do the bathroom. Although I never pictured myself as someone who would have heated ceramic tile. That was what rich, retired, older folks had, not young-ish, working, poor-ish people. But now that we have heated floors, I'm afraid I can never have anything else in my bathroom again. Ever. It's so luxurious I want to lay on it naked after every shower. Oops - did I type that out loud?

2) The balcony
It's off our bedroom and it's the sweetest little white balcony I've ever seen. I feel like a less hormonal Juliet when I stand on it. It's fun to catch glimpses of the sunset or the lake through the tree line, and I could even see fireworks in Point Clarke on Canada Day if I leaned just the right way. D got trapped up there this winter while dismantling my balcony Christmas tree (don't ask). Last year I painted it while in my bikini; it was fun getting honks from passing cars (although likely they were all from D's cousins).

3) The fact that I can see a tree from each and every window
Blue spruce, mountain ash, maple, pine, lilac and crabapple. 'Nuff said.

4) Our ridiculously big bedroom
When I begged D to please knock out the wall between the balcony room and the master bedroom, he gave me that look I have come to know as the "Geez Kim, you're crazy" look. I grew up with a big, airy bedroom of my own. He grew up sharing a small room with two brothers. So in his mind, the enormous bedroom I had envisioned was impractical, over-the-top and slightly insane. To me, it was a necessity. But I wore him down with pleading and my favourite line, "I hardly ever ask you for anything...can't I just have this?" And you know what? He loves our big, balconied bedroom just as much as I do.

5) The bookshelves

On the east wall of our living room are two built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. This is a far cry from their previous makeshift cinder block and nasty Ikea homes. I adore my books; they're like old pals and I often re-read certain ones. They are good company, and it's very satisfying to finally give them a classy place to rest.

I could go on and on about the many lovable qualities of our home. Sure, sometimes we get frustrated with the fact that it's old, the water smells like bad egg salad and it will always need a bit of work to keep it from looking unkempt. But it's pretty much everything I've ever dreamed of. Add an awesome husband and a sweet baby girl to the mix and honestly, what's not to love?

5 things I learned the hard way

1) When buying certain edibles, don't skimp. Don't be tempted by generic brands that look the same or by no-name prices. Your taste buds and stomach will thank you. My list includes pickles, mayonnaise, ketchup, ice cream, maple syrup, Coke and champagne. It's better to spend a little bit extra and actually see the bottom of the mayonnaise bottle after a few months instead of throwing out an almost-full jar. It also prevents long lectures from disgruntled husbands ("You didn't buy HEINZ ketchup? Kimmy, there ain't no other kindz!"). Plus, life is too short to drink crappy champagne or fake Coke.

2) Buy good sheets, no lower than 300 threadcount, preferably Egyptian or organic cotton. Trust me on this one: once you have experienced the soft, gentle embrace of good sheets, you will never again suffer your body to sleep on scratchy polyester disasters from Zellers. Even D, who was a die-hard flannel sheet aficionado, has become a convert to my silk/cotton blends.

3) Some dogs just want to chase cats. No matter how much time you spend trying to teach them that cats are not their personal wind-up toys, or encourage a feline/canine dialogue, certain dogs are hard-wired to chase small furry things. No amount of patient instruction or angry yelling will help. It's easier to accept this phenomenon and strategically prevent said dogs from having kitty contact.

4) Men think farting is funny. This does not change with age, maturity or marital status. No amount of dirty looks or talks about respect or how when you were dating they never passed gas in front of you will ever change this. *sigh*

5) Some people are just better than you are at doing stuff. Writing, baking, scrabble, witticisms, decorating - there's always someone who can do it better than you can. And that's okay. Cause it probably means you can do something better than someone else out there too!

5 things that tick me off

Yes, I know, positive thinking is ever so much hipper than a good 10 minutes of grousing, but if I see one more "you are your attitude" tagline on a co-worker's email signature I'm going to barf. So you know what? I'm going against all those happy-positive-things-to-be-grateful-for (sorry Jaime and Susan!) blogs I've been seeing lately and I'm gonna let loose and post five things that irritate me. Not that I have anything against happy, thankful blogs. Just think of it as me helping to create a bloggerland balance.

1) Saran wrap that gets hopelessly tangled in my hands. How it manages to do this in the 3 seconds between the moment I rip it off and the moment I want to attach it to my bowl of Jell-O/pasta salad/soup, I will never understand. Wretched stuff.

2) Alarm clocks where the snooze button can be hit endlessly. Not only is this feature counter-productive, it's damned annoying for the person who DOES NOT need to get up. I bought D one that has a three-snooze maximum. It has preserved our marriage.

3) Driving 15 minutes into town in the pouring rain to get a video, then driving 15 minutes back, popping some corn, getting snuggled up on the couch, pressing play...only to discover they've given you the wrong video.

4) Upsetting an entire cart full of milking machines (including a hot bucket of water, paper towels, a hoe and dog biscuits) into the manure-filled gutter because your brother-in-law hasn't put air in the tires.

5) Putting on your favourite K-Os CD in order to get you in the mood to cook a fabulous supper and hearing two of the best songs skip.

Ahhh, I feel much better now! You will, too, if you wanna share some of your tick-offs...