Can't You Control Your Child?

I winced as these words hit me in the back, and they weren't even directed at me (this time, anyway). I turned around to see a painstakingly put-together elderly woman storming away from an obviously tired, obviously frazzled and, given the redness of nose and the bleariness of her eyes, obviously sick young mom. She had an infant on her hip, equally red-nosed & bleary-eyed, and an active toddler who had taken a distinct interest in the bags of cotton balls. He was probably just getting over the sickness after thoughtfully passing it on to his mom & sister, and was now full of that bored, fidgety energy of a toddler who's been cooped up for a few days. My heart broke open with empathy for the mom. I could tell that she was clinging to the frayed ends of her rope, and the last thing she needed at that point was criticism. If anything, she could have used a hug and some reassurance that she would make it through.

I've been there. We've all been there, haven't we? That place where you're just trying to get through the day, or afternoon, or trip to the drug store, or sometimes even just the next 5 minutes. If you haven't, perhaps you could direct me to your blog/book/advice column/babysitting service, because I probably have something to learn from you. Can't I control my child? The simple answer to that weighted question is no, I cannot control my child. Nor do I truly have the slightest interest in doing so. Yes, I occasionally cringe at his behaviour. There was the time he threw a major tantrum on the sidewalk outside the grocery store. I felt like an animal on the plains of Africa as the cars slowly drove by, people peering at us through their tightly rolled up windows. And of course the lovely incident when he spat on my face in Starbucks. That was a doozy. Yes, I wish I didn't have to constantly remind him about the ins and outs of polite society, but he's 4 and he's going to belch really emphatically at the most inopportune times. He's going to loudly point out and ask questions about what is different about any person he sees, whether it's something they want acknowledged or not. Actually, especially if not. And then there's his tendency to try to negotiate everything, including non-negotiable safety issues, or simply on those days when I want him to just do what I ask without argument. It would certainly make my life easier if I could turn him into a docile yes-man, but I'm not sure it would best serve the needs of my son. As a parent, I don't see it as my job to "control" him, but more to help him learn how to control himself.

I would love it if he picked up some impulse control sooner rather than later, but he's like Curious George - "a good little monkey, but always very curious." As we wend our way through childhood, I want him to learn that I will always listen to his viewpoint. I want him to know that I will really only stand in the way of his desires if they will or could seriously harm him or someone else. At the core of it all, though, is my desire to instill in him the belief that everyone, including himself, deserves to be treated with kindness and respect. If I can manage that, I will consider myself a successful parent. Getting too caught up in the details, I run the risk of quashing some of the qualities in my son that I love and admire. His dive-in head first lust for life. His healthy determination; he knows what he wants, and will not be swayed from his path. He has faith in his abilities ("I can do it myself!"), and all that negotiation leads me to believe he has the knowledge and skills to stand up for himself. These qualities that can frustrate me to no end mostly because they interfere with my plans for the day, could really serve him in the future. So no, I won't "control" my son. But that rude old lady in the drug store is sure lucky that I've learned to control myself, because dammit if I didn't want to run up and give her a swift kick in the shin.

Get Back To Work!

"But I don't want you working, Momma! I want you here!" How can you hear that plea/demand and not have your heart break a little bit? Could it really be 4 short years ago that the little dude became my full time job? Never mind that he's now in pre-school three days a week and playcare two of those afternoons. Nevermind that this new schedule of mine hasn't impacted his schedule in the slightest (yet). Kiddo is nervous about me returning to work, because it's human nature to be nervous about change. He knows that some moms work, but he's never known his mom to go to work. Up until a few months ago, Dad going to work meant he left on Sunday night and we didn't see him again until Friday night. So, yeah, the kid's a little worried about what this change is going to mean for him.

I had been prepping kiddo for the possibility of me working. I knew he was ready - he has become increasingly independent ("I can do it myself!"), he's started asking why he can't go to pre-school every day, and he's a very active, social little fellow. He has more needs than his introverted, introspective momma can fill. As much as he may protest, I suspect the kid gets sick of looking at me some days. Granted, this job came up unexpectedly, and a little quicker than anticipated, but it's part-time, flexible hours doing something I love (baking). It was impossible to pass up. And I sure as hell knew I was ready to go back to work. The term "stir-crazy" comes to mind. Heavy on the "crazy". So we're transitioning to a lifestyle that will work better for everyone involved, but it doesn't come without some growing pains. For all his rambunctiousness, he's a pretty sensitive kid. He's one of those children who just feels everything intensely - joy, sadness, anger, fear. Every change, every stage has been accompanied by sleep disturbances and reactive behaviour. All I know how to do at this point (in my sleep-deprived state) is continue to be honest with him about what he can expect, be there when I say I'm going to be there, and cuddle him to death when the opportunity arises. And hope to all hell that I'm not going to screw him up. But really, I could screw him up just as easily at home as I could at work. I may as well make some money while I'm doing it.

To Sleep, Perchance To Dream

We were a bit cocky in the early months. We managed to get the kiddo sleeping through the night (ie. 6 straight hours) when he was 8 weeks old. Somewhere along the way, things went horribly wrong. It all started at about 18 months when he figured out how to climb out of his crib. He became a broken jack-in-the-box, constantly popping out no matter how hard you tried to stuff him back in. Then, when we finally convinced him to stay in his own bed, the nightmares started. Dragons, dinosaurs, monsters, lions, aliens, bad guys... you name it. We have fought them off with dragon spray, anti-lion protection lotion, night lights, threats, rhymes & chants. The bastards keep coming back. We've tried letting him come to sleep in our bed in the middle of the night, but one of us invariably ends up swearing, and I invariably end up lying awake until the alarm goes off. I've tried sleeping with him in his bed, but he's a kicker (like his poppa), and a twin bed is not big enough for the two of us.

You don't realize how important sleep is until you're not getting enough of it. You feel stupider, probably because you are. Your brain function deteriorates without rest, causing you to lose concentration, memory function, and problem-solving ability. You may still be able to get stuff done, but you're slower, clumsier and have a harder time making decisions. On top of all that, you'll have a harder time regulating your emotions, so you can get depressed and/or bitchy. Really bitchy. So when all three members of my family are not sleeping well, you can imagine the sunshine and rainbows just bursting out of our house. To quote the WonderPets, "This is serious."

I remember some of the nightmares I had as a kid; I was sure those scrubbin' bubbles were going to come into my house and smother me. I can remember lying rigidly awake, scared to move, listening and analyzing every sound the house made. My poor little 4-year old does the same thing. He can't regulate his dreams yet. He still believes that the monsters in his head are real. We're working on it, but he still doesn't believe he can take control of the dream and change the story. Thankfully, my hubby received a suggestion from a friend that is showing some promise. We still have kiddo's crib mattress, which we have now placed in our room on the floor over on my side of the bed. If the little dude wakes in the night, he can come plop himself down there. It's nice to wake up only once or twice, as opposed to the 10 to 15 times we were developing into. Already I feel a tiny bit more patient, and maybe a little bit smarter. Here comes the sunshine (and rainbows).

Boys In Pink Tutus

I knew I would catch some flack for it. I was pretty sure my husband wouldn't be thrilled by the idea, but I was curious to see how it would all play out. When we were visiting with kiddo's bestest friend in the whole world and she decided to put on one of her princess dresses, my boy decided he wanted to be a "beautiful prince." So he went to her dress-up closet and managed to pull out the most gauzy, floaty, sparkly, fuzzy-trimmed pink confection of a dress he could possibly find. Despite my convictions on gender neutrality in play, I found myself asking if he realized that "usually" only girls wore dresses. He gave me his standard "I know, Momma" (this kid apparently knows everything), so I helped him put it on.

I'm pretty sure my son won't suffer any negative long term consequences from trying on a dress. Some may disagree (my husband grumbled something about a "slippery slope"), but I don't believe that letting my son wear a pink tutu will make him gay. If you do disagree, maybe you could tell me this: how long would he have to wear it before the homosexuality seeps in? On hour? Five? Or would he have to try it on multiple times? For the record, I don't care if he is gay or not - I just don't believe that pink gauze & sequins hold that kind of power. And I'm sure that most people would agree with me. So the question then becomes, why are we so hyper-vigilant about our sons engaging in typically female play? Are we worried about it making them "girly?" And what does that actually mean? Thanks to the feminist movement, parents rarely worry about their daughters playing with cars, or playing sports. Unfortunately, there has been no mainstream equivalent to feminism for men. Do we really de-value stereotypical feminine characteristics that much? Would the world be worse off if men as a whole were more emotionally intelligent? More nurturing? Had better communication skills? Enjoyed romantic comedies? I think not. So I say, if your son wants to wear pink, or try on a dress, or play with dolls, let him. Let him walk a mile in kitten heels. Children are naturally curious. To deny them opportunities to explore simply places limits on their perspective & understanding.

I, for one, do not want to place those kinds of limits on my kid. This wasn't about gender roles or sexuality. It was about never having worn sequins before. It was about trying something new. It was about wanting to be a part of whatever his best friend was doing. Once in their dresses, they climbed up the ladder to the rope bridge, clambered across, slid down the slide, attempted the monkey bars. Rolled on the grass. Played "bus." He shot at bad guys with his umbrella. All of it normal, natural kid stuff. And they looked damn good doing it.

Coffee 101

When I first tasted coffee as a teenager, I thought "This is bitter & disgusting. Why would anyone put themselves through this?" My mother assured me that I would one day be converted, probably when I was in university doing exams, or after the birth of a child. Her confidence in these assertions of course strengthened my resolve to NEVER like the stuff. Imagine my surprise to find a kindred spirit in the owner of my local coffee shop.

Dave Evans, owner of The Stick In The Mud, claims he never drank coffee regularly before the age of 35, as no one had ever made him a good cup of the stuff. He was happy to amble through life as a tea snob of sorts, until a compatriot in the tea camp came back from France a defector. As the story goes, this friend and his wife spent some time in Paris enjoying the traditional one, 10-hour meal per day. Towards the end of the day, early evening-ish, they would head out for an espresso and be good to go for another 2 hours or so. Sounds lovely, doesn't it? This story sent Dave on the quest to find the perfect cup of coffee in Canada. Now, as a barista, coffee roaster, owner and aficionado, he claimed to be able to convert me. Skeptical as I was, I'm always up for a challenge.

The weapon of choice was a cappuccino: 1 ounce of espresso to 5 1/2 ounces of milk. Rich, thick espresso in the bottom with steamed milk poured in, topped with that yummy milk foam, a.k.a. microfoam, a.k.a. liquid marshmallow. (Appropriately called liquid marshmallow as the process of adding heat and air to the milk allows the naturally occurring sugars in the milk to be more readily accessible to the tongue.) In the interest of full disclosure, mine was a wet cappuccino. Wet cappuccinos generally have a higher ratio of milk and are poured slightly differently. According to the laws of cappuccino, you need to drink them within a couple of minutes before things start to separate. Which is probably why they're also not supposed to be larger than 7 ounces. Over 7 ounces, and you call it a latte; roughly the same ratio of espresso to milk, just bigger. As part of my coffee education, I learned that Americanos are made by adding water to espresso. They originated in World War II as a somewhat disdainful accommodation of American GIs in Europe who were seeking a larger cup than the traditional espresso. But I digress; back to my cappuccino.

I gave it a gentle stir and tasted the foam: so far, so good. I dove right in, and guess what? It still tasted like coffee, but it was the best damn cup of coffee I've ever had. Bitter, yes, but bitter in the way of extremely dark chocolate. The Stick In The Mud roasts their own beans on-site, and Dave claims that he aims for the taste of a dark chocolate fruit & nut bar in the roasting process. How can you go wrong with that? I even went on to try an espresso after my cappuccino; a little harder for my virgin palate, but not as harsh as I expected. This could be the caffeine buzz talking, but I may even go on to become a convert. That is, if The Stick didn't make such a damn good chai latte.

Does Enjoying Cover Tunes Mean I'm Getting Old?

Addiction is a strong word. Let's say I've developed a penchant for covers of songs from my youth, and it doesn't matter if I liked the original version or not. So why do I get a kick out of hearing some old, familiar songs redone? There has to be some psychology behind that. I went through the songs on my 'covers' playlist (yes, I went so far as to make a playlist), and managed to break it down to a few reasons. (I've linked to the songs I could find online, but otherwise linked to the artist.)

Firstly, some of these remakes just make me giggle. The Acorn's cover of Strange Animal by Gowan is probably not going to win them any awards for musical genius, but I could listen to that tune all day. Likewise, Sebadoh's overly-articulated version of Run To You (Bryan Adams) elicits a chuckle and a boogie almost every time. Then there's Your Love, originally by The Outfield. I had that album on vinyl; I probably still have it tucked away in a box somewhere. Bon Iver's version makes me smile, and gives me warm fuzzy feelings at the same time.

This overlaps into the second category of cover tunes: those that take me back to a specific time or place in my life. Ladies of the 80s, I've got 3 words - Pretty In Pink. As a teenager in the 80s, I wanted to be Molly Ringwald. The National's cover of Pretty In Pink allows me to drift off & reminisce, while still maintaining a aura of cool (yeah, right). On the flip side, I wasn't a fan of Cum On Feel The Noise back in the day but it was played at pretty much every school dance I attended. Thanks to Bobby Bare Jr., I can finally enjoy this tune. Repeatedly.

Finally, there are a few cover songs that are simply musically brilliant. M. Ward's version of Let's Dance rivals David Bowie's original for a place in my heart. And don't tell Elton John, but I may actually prefer Tortoise & Bonnie Prince Billy's version of Daniel. Maybe. Then there's the combination of two of my favourite artists: Neko Case singing Neil Young. I believe she always will be a Dreaming Man.

Most of these cover songs I love for a combination of all of the above reasons. So why is there an influx of covers from the days of my youth? Did these bands grow up on the same music I did? It's possible that for some of them, this is the music of their parents. Man, I'm getting old. But it is comforting to know that some things are recurrent in the soundtrack of my life - songs, people, lessons. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I hear Shonen Knife playing Top Of The World (The Carpenters). Time to dance.

Happy Turkey Day!

Thanksgiving could be my favourite holiday. You don't have to worry about presents or too much pomp & ceremony. This is one holiday in which it's all about the food. Plus, it's pretty much a non-denominational, all inclusive kind of day, although some First Nations people may disagree. And possibly some vegetarians, but that's why they invented Tofurkey (why else would someone invent tofurkey?) For any of my American friends who may be unaware, we here in Canada celebrate Thanksgiving in October. Why? As part of our national identity centers around being polite, we always want to be the first to say thank you.

As my son's birthday falls in the week before Thanksgiving, we manage to fulfill our family obligations then. Therefore, for Turkey Day we don't have to worry about traveling or remembering which side of the family we visited last year. I love that we seem to have started the tradition of hosting a potluck Thanksgiving for our friends every year. This year we've invited as many people as can fit around the table, plus a few more. Hence, I have named this year's turkey Larry, as he is one giant bird. I doubt we'll go around the table and have everyone state what they're thankful for; with this many people, the food would get cold before we got halfway around the room. The act of coming together, sitting down to share a meal: there is reverence and thanks in that alone. But to get in the spirit of things, I shall get my thanks out of the way now.

I am, of course, thankful for my friends and family, those I see regularly and those I rarely get to see. I am thankful for love, understanding, and acceptance. I am thankful for books, music, creativity. I am thankful for sleep, when I can get it. I am thankful for trees and streams and isolated beaches. I am thankful for Larry. I will be thankful if my old oven makes it through this day. I am thankful for chocolate. I am thankful for you.

Happy Turkey Day.

Risottos'R'Us

I love to cook. Well, more accurately, I love to eat good food, and given my circumstances, that means I have to cook. I'm sure I could quite easily learn to love having someone else cook for me, given the opportunity. However, as our budget does not allow for a personal chef, I shall retain my post in the kitchen for now.

This past month, I've been on a bit of a risotto quest. I first went to my old favourite, smoked chicken & mango risotto. Unfortunately, I couldn't find any smoked chicken, and my substitution of grilled chicken left things a little bland and disappointing. So I moved on to cardamom chicken risotto, which was decent, but again left me feeling disappointed for the time invested standing at the stove. Finally, the bacon, tomato and spinach risotto. Delicious! Bacon makes everything better. Except for my non-meat eating friends. So the quest was narrowed to finding a yummy vegetarian risotto - and so we come to a delicious red onion/tomato risotto. All of these recipes come out of a risotto cookbook I borrowed from the library years ago. (I've tried to look it up online with no success; I'll track it down when we stop at the library today.)

Before I share the recipe with you, let me share a few things I've learned in my vast risotto history. First, risotto needs to be stirred pretty much constantly, so make sure you have everything else chopped/prepped/measured beforehand. Secondly, pan choice is key. I used a stock pot once, and only once, because stirring in that thing was a huge pain in the ass. I tried a large deep frying pan, but it was so wide that the liquid dissipated too quickly. Now I use my wok and get the best of both worlds. Finally, be prepared to add more liquid than the recipe calls for. You may or may not need it, but it's frustrating to be scrambling around for more when you think you're almost done.

And so here it is. I'll credit the book as soon as I find it. If you try it out, let me know how it goes for you! Found the book! *Risotto: Over 120 Healthy & Delicious Recipes, by Kathryn Hawkins & Jenny Stacey*

Red Onion Tomato Risotto

1/2 cup (125 mL) soaked sun-dried tomatoes
4 oz (125 g) cherry tomatoes, halved
3 3/4 cups (950 mL) vegetable stock
1/4 cup (50 mL) butter
2 medium red onions, finely chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 Tbsp (15 mL) lemon juice
2 cups (500 mL) arborio rice
1 tsp (5 mL) dried or 4 tsp (20 mL) fresh mixed herbs
Salt & freshly ground black pepper
2/3 cup (150 mL) dry white wine
14 oz (398 mL) can chopped tomatoes
1 Tbsp (15 mL) tomato paste
1 tsp (5 mL) sugar
2 Tbsp (25 mL) chopped fresh parsley

1. Drain the sun-dried tomatoes & slice into thin strips. Pre-heat the broiler to a hot setting and cook the cherry tomatoes for 1 to 2 minutes until lightly charred. Set aside.
2. Pour the stock into a saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a gentle simmer.
3. Meanwhile, melt the butter and gently fry the onion, garlic, lemon juice and sun-dried tomatoes for 2 to 3 minutes until just softened but not browned. Add the rice and cook, stirring, for 2 minutes until well mixed. Add the herbs, and season.
4. Add the wine, chopped tomatoes, tomato paste and sugar, and cook gently, stirring, until absorbed. Ladle in the stock gradually until it is all absorbed and the rice is thick, creamy and tender. Adjust the seasoning if necessary.
5. Gently stir in the broiled cherry tomatoes and serve sprinkled with chopped parsley.

The Cupcake Sweatshop

Tomorrow is my son's 4th birthday party. Being a procrastinator, I of course have plenty of things to do today, and nestled right in the middle of the list is "write blog." Oh sure, that'll take 20 minutes, as long as you don't count the 2 hours I usually spend staring at the screen willing the words to just show up on their own. So, today's blog will be brought to you by "Stream of Consciousness," and by the letters O,M,G and sometimes Y.

I do this to myself every time, but this year I am surprisingly unstressed about it. Things are getting done, and I still have a few minutes left before that last minute rolls around. Last year, I made two kinds of chili, neither of which the 3 years olds were generally interested in. This year, I've learned my lesson: simple food, catered to my audience. So the chicken is marinating, ready for the grill. Mac & cheese (generally accepted by most preschoolers) is prepped, veggies are washed & ready for slicing. Cupcakes are baking. Laundry is spinning. Patrick Watson is singing about big birds in small cages. And, will you look at that, words are showing up on the screen for my blog. Granted, it's not a Nobel Prize Winner, but it'll do.

It's a procrastinator's day of reckoning, so to speak, but I'm feeling good. I'm preparing to celebrate my son with our family & friends. How could I not feel good about that? And on that note, my alloted 20 minutes are up. Better get back to the cupcake sweatshop.

Battle Stations

I've been wrestling with this decision for months, and now that it's been made, I feel a huge sense of relief. You see, kiddo turns 4 next week. For the past 6 months he's been asking for a sword. And/or a gun. I made the mistake of saying "Maybe for your birthday," thinking he would forget about it in 6 days, much less 6 months. However, as his birthday crept closer and he kept asking, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. I mean, we worked through the biting phase, survived the hitting phase and finally made it through the spitting phase. Do I really want to start arming him with weaponry at this point?

I did relent this summer and let him have a water gun. In part because I love a good water fight as much as the next gal, and in part because the boundaries are more easily defined. Also, they didn't have Super Soakers when I was a kid; those things are fun. They can cover some serious distance. The rules are pretty much common sense: only outside, and only when everybody has bathing suits or play clothes on. And Momma gets to put them away when we're done. No, I didn't go so far as to get a gun safe for the Super Soakers; it's just a high shelf. But I don't relish being ambushed by a stream of water running down my back while I'm chopping onions.

I used to think that you could shape your kid's interests, and that they would just play with whatever toys you gave them. Then I saw my 16-month-old son making motor noises and pushing around his shoe because I hadn't thought to buy him any toy cars yet. If he has a mind to, he can turn an empty paper towel roll into a sword. However, it's just as likely to become a telescope or a trumpet at this stage. I realize that his interest in combat toys is not going to go away just because mommy is a pacifist and wants to live in Nirvana-la-la-land. On the flip side, the day I relented to let him hold the sword in the store, what do you think he did with it? That's right. Let me tell you, just because it's a Nerf sword, doesn't mean it feels great when it cracks you in the ribs. So for this year's birthday, he'll be getting a marble maze that he can build into different configurations (Quadrilla is so cool!) And maybe, just maybe, after a few more years of work on boundaries and impulse control, I'll let him have a Nerf sword. Like, when he's 17.

The Not-So-Extreme Makeover

The prospect of rejoining the paid work force is rather terrifying. For one thing, I'm looking at my closet and realizing that I've worn nothing but the Mom Uniform of a t-shirt & jeans for the past 4 years. And at my last position as an apprentice cabinetmaker, I just wore grubby t-shirts and ripped jeans. Not to mention that I haven't bought make-up since my wedding. I've never really been a fashionista, but I at least used to have more than two pairs of shoes. I actually bought an InStyle magazine the other day just to see what the kids are wearing these days. Thankfully, I think I missed the resurgence of 80s fashion; that was bad enough the first time around.

Thinking about it, the bigest part of the return-to-work makeover is internal. 4 years ago I went through a major identity shift, not simply adding "mom" to my list of roles, but subtracting "productive member of the work force." A difficult thing to do in our capitalism-based society, and also just as a person who has always taken pride in her independence. The words "just a mom" can either be a convenient summation of my life or an insult, depending on who says it and how it's said. I now face saying goodbye to the days of wallowing in toddlerhood and reinventing myself, yet again. There is some trepidation about how I go about talking to adults again about things other than sleepless nights and bodily functions, but I'm sure I'll get there eventually. My plan? When in doubt, just say "Looks like we're in for some more rain" or "How 'bout that Lindsay Lohan?"

Transferrable Skillz

Let me just say off the top here that I never aspired to be an at-home parent. My mother stayed home with my sister, brother and I until we were all in school. I saw how hard she worked and how little external validation she got. It's not like any of us pulled her aside at the end of the day and said "Great job parenting today, Mom. I really liked how you handled the blankie situation, and your mediation of the cookie debate was truly inspired." No, we absolutely took her for granted, assuming that because she had always taken care of our needs, that it was her singular role in life. I'm sure if you asked her today she would say that it was her most important, and most rewarding job, as would any parent. But let's be honest here - I've had some irrational, demanding bosses in my time, but none of them can hold a candle to a 2-3 year-old.

I suppose I decided to stay home with my son out of a mixture of love and arrogance. I knew in the large scheme of life, a few years would go by in a blip. I didn't think it possible that someone else could love him as much as I do, or manage his life the way that I wanted it done. I figured I would never have the chance again to spend such an intense period of time with my child, and I'd be foolish not to take it, if possible. This was the decision for me and my family. Some mothers need to work shortly after giving birth either for financial reasons, or for reasons of their own sanity, and I fully support this. The great thing about living in the 'free world' is that we have the freedom to make whatever choices best suit our families. Now that my son is almost 4 and in Preschool, I'm starting to feel the itch to return to the outside working world. Due to the difficult nature of my pregnancy (I have subtitled it "280 Days of Puking") I haven't worked in almost 5 years. Some months went faster than others. Some phases have dragged on beyond reasonable limits, but for the most part the 5 years have blown by.

From my employment counselor days, however, I know that 5 years is a long break to have in one's employment history. As much as we want to honour a parent's choice to stay home with his/her child, in reality it can be difficult for a parent to make the jump back into the paid work force. There seems to be the unspoken worry that being at home with kids can make you soft; make you lose your edge. Nothing could be farther from the truth, at least in my case. For instance, I used to have a hard time saying no. Now, I say it at least 20-30 times per day. I am better at delegating and multi-tasking. I have honed my skills in conflict resolution and crisis management. I can stare into the eye of the beast - the screaming, red-faced beast - and retain my composure. I just need to figure out how to get these skills onto my resume, and coax a good reference out of my kid (did someone say chocolate cake?).

Let The Music Play

I recently came to the awareness that how I experience music has changed over the years. We went to see The National play the Malkin Bowl in Vancouver this weekend. It was the first show I'd been to in at least 4 years; since the birth of my son. I realized that, prior to the show, I couldn't have picked a single band member out of a line-up. The last rock posters I had on my walls were of David Bowie, John Taylor and the Thompson Twins. My 'Tiger Beat' days are three decades behind me, and my days of endless MTV or MuchMusic viewing died the following decade.

If I like the music, I like a band. Plain and simple. However, until I see a band play live, it's more of a 'like' with an asterisk - playing well live is a litmus test for my respect. The National is one of those bands who are, incredibly, actually better live. And, thanks to the young ladies standing in front of me, I learned that their music could be much bouncier and perkier than I originally thought. In these girls' defense, they appeared to there for a stagette. It was easy to figure out which one was getting married: the young lady was literally glowing - or perhaps just reflecting light from the cell phone that she didn't stop texting on throughout the entire show. But when you're young, you go to a show for one of two reasons (both valid): for the music, or for the scene. If you're going for the scene, your interest will slowly wane as your scene changes. If you're going for the music, you'll always go for the music. And there's a plethora of great music out there. CBC Radio3 and Sirius XMU are great resources for finding independent bands, if you're not finding stuff you like on mainstream radio.

So I'd like to put out a big thank you to The Walkmen and The National for a great show. Thank you to my hubby & friends for a great night. Thank you to my in-laws for hangin' with the kiddo. And finally, thank you to my friend Gillian's unborn child for helping us score a premium parking spot. Getting old and having a family does have it's benefits.

No Worries

I read somewhere that worrying is like riding a stationary bicycle - it gives you something to do, but doesn't get you anywhere. I worried quite a bit in my youth, and I think the fear of what might happen kept me from enjoying things that were actually happening in the moment. Over the years, I've trained myself to stop worrying - or at least to worry less. However, when you have a child, that can open you up to a whole new class of worries. So when Offbeat Mama (one of my new favourite sites) linked to an NPR article by Meagen Voss entitled "5 Worries Parents Should Drop, And 5 They Shouldn't" I was curious to see what I could cross off my list.

According to the book Ms. Voss references in her article (The Paranoid Parents Guide by Christie Barnes), the top 5 worries parents have are: kidnapping, school snipers, terrorists, dangerous strangers and drugs. I'm proud to say that I don't spend a lot of time worrying about any of these things However, my son's only 4; I have plenty of time to worry about snipers and drugs later on. The top 5 things that do hurt or kill children are: car accidents, homicide by someone known to them, abuse, suicide and drowning. So fine; know your kid, know the significant people in his life, instill him with self-esteem and self-efficacy, make him wear his seatbelt, and make sure he learns how to swim. Bases covered, right? But what about my other worries? Like the fact that I'm probably doing something or will do something that will give him major issues later on and land him in years of therapy? Or the worry that he's just too damn cute for his own good, and that could land him in trouble someday? Or that someone, somewhere is eventually going to break his heart, and there's nothing I can do about it? I suppose that's the crux of it - there's nothing I can do about it. Which reminds me of another saying floating around somewhere in the dark reaches of my brain: Why worry? If you can do something about it, do it and stop worrying. If you can't do anything about it, what's the point in worrying?

I'm a parent and I'm a human. I'm going to make mistakes. The best I can do is love my kid and make the choices that feel right for us. Worrying only undermines my belief in myself, or worse - my son's belief in himself. So go ahead buddy, climb that rock wall. Ride down that huge hill on your bike. Just wear your frickin' helmet, alright?

Change in the Air

Ah, September; the month of new chapters. Since I was a kid heading back to school, September has always buzzed with the energy of change. New lunch box, new pencil crayons, new best friends to meet. My son starts his first day of pre-school tomorrow, and I think I'm more excited than he is because I know that this will open up his door to the world just a little wider. The weather is turning slightly colder, and a hell of a lot rainier (of course on the week that I have tickets to an outdoor concert).

With the change of season, the garden is in transition, too. The greens are all but done; as per a friend's suggestion, I'm going to harvest some arugula seed pods to make some arugula-infused oil (thanks, Steve!) I'll leave only one arugula plant for my seed-saving experiment. The Romaine and red-leaf lettuce have been pulled to make room for some spinach; more of a cold-weather crop. We've been snacking on pea pods for a couple of weeks, but overall I have to admit that this year's garden has been a bit of a let down after last year's successes. It looks like I won't be able to make a yummy Greek tomato tart from my own cherry tomatoes this year. The corn stalks are beyond stunted. It's not their fault; they seem to be trying really hard, but to no avail. And to top it all off, I managed to choose a fake curry plant that is apparently inedible. It sure smells great, though.

On the plus side, it looks like I have an abundance of potatoes that I now have to figure out how to harvest and store. The acorn and butternut squash are developing nicely. The pumpkin plants are pushing out these huge velvety-curved flowers that I'm almost embarrassed to photograph. Hopefully we'll be carving jack-o-lanterns from our own pumpkins this year! Perhaps my proudest achievement is holding off on eating my blackberries - I should have enough to make a pie this week and enjoy the fruits of my labour. Or, more accurately, the fruits of my non-labour, as my most prolific crop grows wild without any input from me.

So, as my growing season winds down I am contemplating my next steps in life. Like perhaps changing the name of my blog, as I will no longer be able to pretend that it has much to do with gardening. Stay tuned; the winds of change are blowing, and bringing the fog and rain with them. Perfect time to curl up with a mug of cocoa and do some pondering.

Babe in the Woods

About 7 years ago, my husband (then, boyfriend) and I made the decision to move out of the city and into 'the country.' And we're not talking city suburb to small town suburb; we're talking two blocks from the heart of Kitsilano in Vancouver, to two blocks from the middle of nowhere. The learning curve started the first night when, after a full day of unpacking, we made the 25-minute drive into town to find something for dinner and luckily caught the A&W drive-thru 5 minutes before it closed. The grocery stores were dark, cafés long shut, sidewalks rolled up for the night, so to speak. An early wake-up call, coming from the land of 24-hour consumption.

For the first few months, it felt like we got a few glasses of cold water thrown in our faces. Back in Kits, I delighted in being able to walk on all my errands: groceries, drug store, post office, doctor. Suddenly, I was extremely reliant on my car (there's no bus service out this far). Then when you get to town, there's no guarantee that they'll have what you're looking for. The produce manager at one of grocery stores once looked blankly at me when I asked if he had any tomatillos (sure, not everyone is familiar with exotic vegetables, but I assumed a produce professional would have at least heard of a tomatillo). What I missed most, though, was the restaurants. There are some great restaurants in Sooke, but there were probably twice as many places to eat in one block of our old neighbourhood than there are in our entire adopted new town (yes, after 7 years we're still considered newcomers by some of the 'real' locals). When we lived a few blocks from the 5th Avenue Cinemas, we caught a couple of great movies every month. Now, with no local movie theatre (as well as the addition of our son) we're lucky to see one movie on the big screen per year. And while our local community centre offers some great classes and services, they're no match for the variety you can find in an urban centre.

That's just one side of the equation, though. We've learned and gained so much from living out in the bush. For instance, I learned that an adolescent black bear can fit through a dog door, and I should therefore NOT store a full bag of garbage out on the enclosed porch overnight. I've learned how to live more simply; how to be better organized and how to make do with what I have (since going back to the grocery store for something I forgot is generally not worth the time). It's forced me to become a better cook, because there's no pizza delivery out to our neck of the woods. I've gained trees, relatively secluded beaches, dazzling displays of stars in the night sky, bugs and slugs, bunnies, quail, eagles, bears, otters and seals. While I do have to work a little harder at finding social outlets for my son, I've never felt the need to buy one of those books on how to facilitate your child's connection with nature. We generally have to work at keeping nature from waltzing in the front door.

Is one better than the other? Depends on who you are, and who you ask (and for me, it sometimes depends on what day you ask). I do sometimes miss the energy and vibrancy of the city, but even the thought of leaving my little cabin in the woods makes me a little teary-eyed. It's been said that Vancouver Island moves at a slower pace than Vancouver itself, but I think it's more accurate to say that it just vibrates at a lower frequency. The energy is completely different; it's less about where you're going, and more about where you are. Less about finding your place in the world, and more about finding the world in it's place. And that's a beautiful thing.

Hippie Chick in the Big City

I have to say, the mom-cation was a huge success. I made it into Vancouver in time to meet a great friend for some good Indian food at a place downtown called Sanafir. I did feel a bit like a hippie chick from the country amidst the done-up glam of Granville Street on Friday night. Thankfully at almost-40, this is more of an amusing anthropological observation than an insecurity-inducing one. There was an aspect of walking down memory lane that night, too. Trying to remember the last time I'd been to The Roxy. Trying to remember what the name of that bar on the corner used to be when I saw Michael Bublé play there oh so many years ago. (As an aside, that guy's got a bit of the Dick Clark time-warp thing going for him. He still looks exactly the same as he did back then.)

Saturday was a lovely, ambling mix of coffee shops, yoga class, a guitar lesson and an afternoon of wandering Main Street (one of the best places for people-watching in the city). In my wanderings I, of course, managed to pick up a little something for my monkey - Chimp Sticks for our trips to Noodle Box. Maybe it was being without much of a schedule amidst other people's busy-ness. Maybe it was being someplace familiar, yet outside of my day-to-day. Maybe it was simply having a day to cater to my own whims. Whatever it was, I emerged from that day feeling peaceful, relaxed, clear and energized at the same time. Which was immensely helpful when I had to scrub washable crayon out of the couch yesterday.

I dare say I've started a bit of an epidemic amongst my friends; now everyone wants a mom-cation. I could not be more proud. We spend so much time putting our energy into other people that it's sometimes easy to forget about ourselves. After one quick weekend the well has been refilled; I feel more centered in myself and have more to give. So, if you feel like you're running on fumes, take a break. You can't be there for your loved ones if you're falling apart yourself.

The Mom-cation

Have you seen the movie "Date Night"? There's a scene in which Tina Fey's character describes her ultimate fantasy. It involves a hotel room, a lunch, and a diet Sprite (I wonder how much Sprite paid for that mention?) All by herself, no interruptions. That one scene validated something I've been telling my husband for a couple of years now - I need a mom-cation. Not that I'm complaining about my life; life is pretty good. However, with every job, every role we take on, it's important to take a break once in a while. Catch our breath, recharge our batteries, gain some perspective. Just a tiny bit of time off from being "the mom."

We're not talking about months or weeks, here. Not even days, really. Just one day. One 24-hour period in which I'm not responsible for anyone's needs but my own. One day that I don't have to think about juice boxes or snacks or what's for dinner. One day in which getting in the car to go somewhere is not a half-hour process. One day without having to locate someone's slippers/ tractor/ thing with the yellow thing on it/ favourite t-shirt/ car keys/ insert random object here. And, on that note, one day without having to worry about someone inserting random objects into random places. I don't think it's too much to ask. Luckily, my husband agrees. Mostly because he recognizes that being the at-home parent is non-stop job in which you live at the office, but I suspect also in part because he wants to continue to be able to go on surf trips whenever the occasion arises.

So, this weekend, I'm doing it. I found an inexpensive B&B within walking distance to some good restaurants, a yoga studio and some quirky shops. I'm going to wander, and breathe, and follow my thoughts through to their natural completion. I'm going out with a girlfriend and having a conversation without distractions. I'm going to eat delicious food without having to cook or clean-up. I'm going to choose a restaurant based on what I want to eat, rather than what's on their kids menu. I'm going to read my book, do some yoga, take a guitar lesson and go to a movie. And sleep - oh, am I going to sleep. I may just take random naps around the city. In short, I'm going to do whatever the heck I want to do without having to account for anyone else. For two nights and one blissful day. I'm sure I'll miss my hubby & son far more than they miss me - they're looking forward to their first boys weekend ever. I've heard whispered plans of riding bikes, going swimming and playing video games. I have complete faith in their ability to survive two nights without me.

Signs you may need a mom- (or dad-) cation:

1. You've started to refer to yourself in the third person as "Momma" or "Poppa," and not only to your kid(s).
2. You suspect that "no" has become the primary word in your vocabulary.
3. Family vacations have begun to feel like business trips, because you're doing the same job, just in a different setting.
4. You catch yourself referring to the bathroom as "the potty" to anyone over 5 or 6 years of age.
5. Someone asks you what you want, and you draw a blank because it's been a long time since that felt relevant.

If you see yourself in any of the above statements, you may be in need of a mom-cation. Be it a week, a day or an afternoon, make sure you take some time out for yourself. And if you see me napping anywhere around the city this weekend, please take a napkin, wipe the drool from my chin, and just let me be.

Procrastination Pays Off - Eventually

The arugula stared to bolt about a month ago. I meant to pull it out and replace it with some other greens, but instead we went camping. And then it got kinda hot to work out there. And then it started flowering, and got kinda pretty. Now that the seed pods are developing, I think I'm just going to procrastinate a bit more.

Harvesting arugula seeds sounds pretty easy - wait until the plants turn brown, cut them of, hang them upside down in a paper bag and wait for the seed pods to fall off. Then thresh the pods, collect the seeds and voila - arugula seeds for everyone. Minimal effort, lots of waiting around. Right up my alley. If you want a more detailed explanation, check out Heirloom Organics. A great site for gathering information, as well as finding seeds.

On a culinary note, both the flowers and the seed pods are edible. The flowers are nice and mild, but still have that unmistakable arugula taste. Bite down on a seed pod, and it's like the flavour of an entire arugula plant explodes into your mouth. Delicious, peppery, intense. On the down side, they are a bit fibrous; after snacking on a couple of pods whilst making my garden rounds it felt like I had a small ball of horse hair stuck in my throat. I also tried tossing a handful of pods into a stir-fry as an experiment (I wasn't ready to just give up on that flavour!) - if anything, it made them stringier. Perhaps some of my foodie friends could find better cooking solutions for the seed pods. For now, I'm thinking of installing a spittoon in the garden.

3 Cheers for Books!

I have to say, I mark it up as a parenting victory that my son gets just as excited about going to the library as he does about going to the swimming pool. Not quite as excited as he gets about ice cream, but let's be realistic about our expectations, here. When we get through the library doors, he beelines it straight for the early literacy computer, where he spends half an hour listening to/ reading/ playing with/ laughing out loud at 'Green Eggs and Ham.' Then we spend another 20 minutes picking out books before heading to the self check-out, so that the little guy can push the buttons himself.

We're a reading family - my husband and I are book lovers of just about any genre. We have growing shelves and boxes full of books. Occasionally, one of us will grumble that it's time to clean up the bookshelf and get rid of some. When it comes down to it, though, very few books actually make it out our door to the used book store. I develop attachments to my books in a way that I don't to any of my other 'things'. Across the span of my life, books have been my escape, my solace, my companions, my teachers. As I sort through the overflowing bookshelves and hold each book in my hands, I am inundated with the memories of not just the stories and characters, but of the hours spent cradling the book in my hands. Caressing it's pages. Holding it against my heart to contemplate an especially meaningful passage. Even if I know I'll never read it again, it's hard to get rid of these books (but I'll always lend them out).

That's why I'm so excited to see my son developing and sharing that love of books. We have read to him every day of his life. Day one in the hospital, it was a pulp mystery novel that I was reading at the time. He didn't seem to object to the content, though, and simply enjoyed snuggling into my chest and listening to the sound of my voice. These days, in addition to any books we may read throughout the day, he gets to choose one book for Poppa and one book for Momma to read at bedtime. Lucky Poppa has read 'Curious George and the Big Parade' for 4 nights in a row, now. Last week for me, it was all Gruffalo. But the repetition doesn't matter for now; it's the excitement, the appreciation, the love of reading. I am, however, looking forward to him being old enough for Harry Potter. I can't wait to read that series again, through his eyes.

Cowboys and Indians and Reincarnation

The other night, kiddo said to me "Remember a long time ago when you were the kid and I was the momma?" I smiled and said "Yeah, I remember that. That was a great time." And it got me thinking - maybe it happened. Maybe the people important to us are constant from lifetime to lifetime, and we all take turns in the different roles, like kids at play. "This time you be the cop, and I'll be the robber." "This time you be the Indian, and I'll be the cowboy." This time you be the student, and I'll be the teacher." Except in each role, we're all students, and we're all teachers. I may have been alive longer than my son, and therefore have both important and unimportant things to pass on, but that doesn't mean I have nothing to learn from him, either. About him, about myself, about how the world works.

Perhaps this is true of all the people we cherish and hold close to our hearts. Maybe in each lifetime we've acted out different roles, engaged in different games, learned different lessons. Maybe this is true of all the people we react strongly to, both positively and negatively. We're all just trying to work things out. Trying to get it right this time. Trying to see and understand each other's perspectives. Maybe we seek each other out again and again, trying to complete what we started. Or find a better way. Or understand more about ourselves. Or maybe this world can be so f***ed up confusing sometimes that we need to find the people who make it a bit more sane. Make it feel safe. Like home. Or maybe it was the late-night beautifully poetic musings of an almost-4-year-old, and there is nothing else. And maybe there doesn't need to be.

To all the people in my life, I am grateful for you. I may not say it often enough. I may not open myself wide enough most days. Sometimes it's hard to see past your own sh*t, especially when you feel buried in it. But I do appreciate you. Love you. Hope you're doing well.

I think next time, I want to be a cowboy.

Ode to Great-Grandpa

How do you explain death to a 3 year-old? Great-Grandpa passed away recently; my husband's grandfather. He was a sweet old man who loved to laugh, loved his family, and packed a lot of living into his 90 years. He loved my son, and my son loved him. Now he's gone, and the little guy hasn't quite grasped the concept yet.

We attended the memorial service this past weekend. In trying to prepare the munchkin for the event, I explained that Great-Grandpa had died and we were having a party to celebrate his life and to say good-bye. Of course, the mention of the word "party" led to a 10-minute discussion about cake. I explained to him that it wasn't really that kind of party, but it's tough to talk a 3 year-old out of thinking about cake. When we finally got back to the subject of death, we got to the inevitable "why?" Here's where I floundered a bit; how to explain that death is the inevitable outcome to life without scaring him into believing that all his loved ones will start dropping like flies. I pointed out that Great-Grandpa was really, really, really old (one "really" for each generation. Momma's only really old), and that the older you get, the harder it is for your body to fix itself. I told him that Great-Grandpa's heart was worn out from giving out so much love for so many years. I told him that Great-Grandpa loved and missed Great-Grandma so much, and now that he got to know his great-grandchildren and make sure that they were okay, he was going to be with her. Basically, I just talked until he stopped looking at me with his mouth half-open and got distracted by a bug crawling across the ground.

At the service, he handled himself pretty well. Despite some pre-warning that people might be sad, he was concerned when Grandma and Auntie were crying. "Don't worry, Momma. I'll make them happy." (He did run up and give them hugs immediately after the service.) During the portion of the service where people were invited to share their thoughts, he insisted on putting in his two cents. Of course, when we got to the front of the room he hid behind the program he was clutching, but the thought was there. What he had wanted to say was that he loved his Great-Grandpa a lot, and was going to miss him. I won't be surprised if he wonders where Great-Grandpa is next time we go to visit Grandma, but that's just part of missing someone. Death is a really hard concept to grasp. For all of us. Good-bye, Bill Oddleifson. We will miss you. Thanks for everything.

Blackberry, Crackberry

I seem to have no words today, so instead I present you with a picture of my favourite crop, just starting to come into season. I didn't plant them. I don't water or fertilize them. In fact, I try desperately to ignore them until I have enough to make a pie. Mmm, blackberry pie.
Words to the wise: if you take your kid blackberry picking with you, make sure to dress them in black. We lost many a light-coloured shirt to blackberry juice stains last year!

Namaste, Kiddo

If anyone needs a little Zen in their day, it's at-home parents. Just a few minutes of quiet in the cacophony of daily life. It was easier to do yoga when my son was an infant; I could sneak a little session in while he was napping. To be truthful, though, I always had one ear pointed toward his door on the chance he might wake up and need something. Then came the fateful day when he gave up naps altogether. It's hard to get through a sun salutation when you have a 3 year-old yelling "TUNNEL!" and crawling through every time he sees you in downward dog. Fun, but not quite restful. I spent a couple of years looking for a yoga studio that offered child care, with no success. The answer to my prayers came this past year in the form of Ahimsa Yoga & Fitness. Located just down the road in Sooke, they offer child care during a couple of classes each weekday.

The word "yoga" is roughly translated as "union"; union of body and mind. It gives you a great stretch and a great workout, but with practice, it can be so much more than that. It's meditation; a quieting of the noise inside your head. It's a way to temporarily put aside the self-perpetuating list of things to do and rejuvenate your body, mind and spirit. That way when the phone rings while I'm making lunch and my little helper spills the milk which the dog then runs through and tracks all over the house while bumping the kid into the table which then makes him scream for a band-aid and chase the dog outside somehow in the process letting a bird in the house which immediately proceeds to crap on stuff... I am un-phased. Well, I am less phased. Some people get the same benefit through other things, like going for a run. These days, you won't catch me running unless maybe there's an ice cream truck down the street.

So, bless Ahimsa for their namesake philosophy of non-harm, non-judgment, acceptance and compassion for all. Even boisterous 3 year-olds. The little guy loves it. He runs in the door, kicks off his shoes and heads straight for the playroom at the back. If I dare try to follow him, he shoos me away: "You go, Momma. Go do yoga." I'm definitely not arguing with that. Sure, it may be disconcerting for some to be lying in Savasana and hear an exuberant "E-I-E-I-Ooooo" filtering through the walls of the next room (who's kid is that??). There are plenty of classes, both at Ahimsa and elsewhere, that offer the traditional quietude. To me though, it's the sweet sound of my son having a great time and for the time being needing nothing from me, thus allowing me the freedom to restore what I need for myself. Namaste.

Oh Yeah, This Is Techically a Gardening Blog

Things are finally happening! They may be smaller than my pinky finger, but we're actually getting some cucumbers. The raspberry bush has 6 or 7 berries ripening, which may not sound like a lot, but it's 6 or 7 more than we had last year. The peas are really sprouting right now, tomato plants are coming along nicely, and I got to use some of my own cilantro in a chicken tortilla pie last night (yum).

Perhaps my greatest sense of accomplishment comes from finally gaining the upper hand (or mollusk) over the slugs. The day after I installed the seaweed barrier, I found the stump of a squash flower encased in slime. That night, I went on stakeout. At around dusk, I found 5 slugs coming from all directions, heading toward a secret society meeting in the middle of my garden. Skulls: The Invertebrate Chapter. Only one of them was trying to amble over the seaweed; the rest seemingly emerged from camouflaged ninja hiding spots within the garden itself. I took great pleasure in hurling them into the prickle bushes, and haven't heard from them since. Not that I'm waiting for a postcard.

Not everything's coming up roses, though. The corn is stunted, the slugs seemed to really like the soya beans and it appears that carrots are just not meant to be for us this year. I'm not sure if a slug ran down the rows of carrots like a lawnmower, or if the birds have been sidling up to the buffet. Regardless, I am reluctant to sow them a third time and am considering allotting the real estate to one of my pumpkin plants. So, you win some and lose some. And in gardening, like life, I tend to learn more from the losses. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat my one strawberry before the deer beat me to it.

Market Day

We made a trip to our local farmers' market this weekend. Part shopping excursion, part reconnaissance mission, part face-painting expedition. With a mixture of disappointment and relief I found that most of the stands had plenty of salad greens, but not an abundance of anything else. And these people are professionals. I chatted up one lovely local farmer as she bounced a baby on her knee, who explained to me that we're just having a slow growing season in our neck of the woods. She assured me that my tomato plants will probably still produce something, but I suspect she may have just been being nice to me because I bought some of her peas.

Farmers' markets are a lovely thing. They have the freshest produce you'll ever find, if you don't grow your own. Even if you do grow some things yourself, you can still discover lovely little gems to supplement what you have, or at the very least find a dose of inspiration. Markets are inherently family-friendly, and usually foster a sense of community and solidarity. In my case, I get to commiserate with other growers and pretend that I know what I'm talking about. In my son's case, he gets a moon and stars painted on his face. There are usually other local artisans as well, both food-related (bakers, cheese makers, sausage makers, spice makers) and non-food-related (jewelry designers, wood carvers, musicians, hula-hoopers?) Thanks to the interwebs, it's really easy to find a market in your area. In BC, check out the BC Association of Farmers' Markets, or go here for those specific to Vancouver. For the rest of you folks, there's this handy little thing called Google. According to my mom, you remember something longer if you look it up yourself. I will, however, throw some links up to some of my favourite local haunts. Go support your neighbours!
Sooke Country Market
Metchosin Farmers' Market
Moss Street Market

What Day Is It??

Ah, summer. When the days just roll together and you find yourself one day thinking "wait a minute...it's Saturday? Wasn't I supposed to write a blog entry yesterday?" And then you think "I could just skip it. I'm sure my massive readership of 5 won't even notice." Then you think "the whole reason I started this blog was to have some sort of accountability for writing regularly, so if I skip it, I'm only letting myself down." And then you think "You sound like my mother."

In case you can't tell, I'm a little unprepared and uninspired today. Can't pinpoint why; we had a great walk on the Galloping Goose Trail yesterday followed by the afternoon fun of "let's vacuum Momma's car!" Finally got that seaweed in the garden bed. Did laundry. Put away the last of the camping gear. Perhaps there's the reason for the lack of inspiration. Yesterday was what a friend likes to call a GSD day (Getting Sh*t Done). When you're an at-home parent on GSD days, most of your inspiration goes into convincing your kid(s) to help you, get out of your way, or at the very least not sabotage your efforts by jumping into the pile of freshly folded clothes. Come to think of it, even our lovely walk was occasionally tarnished by ruminations on my part of what all needed to get done. Thankfully, almost-4-year-olds are brilliant at living in the moment and bringing you along with them. So what if you have to re-fold the laundry.

Today, I pledge to get out of my own head. Forget about the never ending list of S that needs to GD. Today, I will take lessons from my son on how to have fun, follow my heart and go where the day takes me. These are the days that tend to bring boundless inspiration. These are the days that remind us why we bother with all the busy work in the first place. The first and only item on today's agenda? Don't have an agenda. In the true procrastinator's spirit, there's nothing I need to do today that can't be put off until tomorrow.

Sometimes I Just Wanna Smack That Kid

I love my son. 3 days ago, he excitedly told me loves "all my (his) friends." 2 days ago, he called me "the sweetest momma in the world." Yesterday, he spat in my face. Now, I'm a pacifist; I don't believe that hitting someone is going to get me anywhere I want to go. However, as I wiped the spit from my eyes with one hand, I could feel the other hand itching. I could practically see it slapping his almost-4-year-old face. But it didn't. I didn't. I sure as hell wanted to, but instead I picked him up, walked out of Starbucks, loaded him back in the carseat and told him that I was too angry to talk to him and that he would be out of time out when I had calmed down.

I could see how we got to that point. We had been camping. He hadn't had enough sleep for three nights in a row, and here I was asking him to stand patiently and not touch all the enticing, dazzlingly packaged things right at his eye level, all because Momma was tired too and wanted a chai latte. At that particular moment, I was asking for more than he had to give, and he was trying to exert some influence in a situation where he was not given any choice. It seems that spitting is his latest method of pushing Momma's buttons and trying to gain some power. I get it. I don't have to like it, but I get it.

Some people feel that spanking is okay. A friend argued with me that kids fear spanking, and fear breeds respect. I don't buy it. Fear breeds quiet resentment; respect breeds respect. Not to mention the fact that it looks like my son will take after his 6'5" father, and fear would only work for me for so long. I can't say that I've never hit him, though. Months ago, I had put him in time out for hitting me. If I walked away, he would grab random things and start throwing. If I got too close, he would hit me again. I grabbed his hand, and with two fingers slapped the back of his wrist as I said "No more hitting!" I could feel the hypocrisy dripping from the words as they came out of my mouth. That's not the parent that I want to be. Instead I pin him down, explaining that I won't let him hurt me or destroy my house. I figure as long as I stay relatively fit, I've got another 9 or 10 years before he's able to overpower me. Hopefully the lesson sinks in before then. Do boys use more physical aggression than girls? I don't know. All I know is that I've taken a poll of my friends who have daughters, and none of them felt the need to institute a "no head butts" rule in their house.

I don't want to give you a too negative picture of my son; he really is a sweet boy. He prides himself on being a "great helper," loves to dance and sing, calls our German Shepherd his "fluffy good girl" and loves other kids, big and small. Really, he saves all this stellar behaviour for me, because he knows, no matter what, I'm not going anywhere. I prefer it that way. I'd rather he not be super sweet to me and an ass to the rest of the world. And I know we'll grow out of this phase, just like we did the last one. I also know that when we reach the teenage years, I'll be extra glad that he's not a girl.

Townes Van Zandt Had Issues

A few nights ago, I got hooked on a movie called "Be Here To Love Me." It's a documentary about the brilliant singer-songwriter, Townes Van Zandt. Even if you're not familiar with the name, you may know a few of his songs without realizing that they're his. (My personal favourite is "If I Needed You," made famous by Don Williams and Emmylou Harris.) However, like most geniuses, the man had issues. The film discusses his personal demons and his struggle with alcohol, but there was one little nugget of information buried in there that I found far more shocking. According to Steve Earle, Mr. Van Zandt became "obsessed" with Morning Glory. He went through a phase in which he would plant it everywhere. To me, this is a sure sign of a troubled mind.

Morning Glory has been the bane of my garden life for quite some time. Up until last year, when I saw a seed packet sitting innocently amongst the other flowers in a store display, I didn't realize that some people put them in intentionally. I suppose the flowers are quite delicate and rather pretty, but the plant itself is so insidious. Morning Glory will creep into every area of you garden and choke out any living thing in it's path that doesn't move fast enough. I've spent years trying to abolish it from one area of the yard, but have only succeeded in keeping it relatively contained. I'm sure it's prolific nature is a good thing if you really, really like Morning Glory, as did Mr. Van Zandt. Moreover, if you hate all the rest of the plants in your garden and want them to get swallowed in an ominous mound of little green leaves and trumpet-like flowers, then Morning Glory may be for you. However, on the advice of my attorney (and based on a deep, personal loathing) I would hesitate to buy another house that had Morning Glory somewhere in the yard. Once it gets in, it's almost impossible to get out.

So while I can't recommend Morning Glory, I can absolutely recommend the movie "Be Here To Love Me." Especially if you like music in general, Townes Van Zandt in particular or just enjoy good documentaries. Perhaps even if you like Morning Glory.

Salad Days

These are the salad days of summer. Literally. In this case, it is not a poetic reference to youth or inexperience, but merely an observation that the only thing I'm getting out of my garden right now is salad. I remember getting a bit disheartened last year at this stage. I mean, I love a good salad as much as the next gal, but she probably doesn't want to eat the same one every night either.

At this point, the garden becomes an arena for the practice of zen. And I hate practicing; just ask my mom about clarinet lessons. There's no getting around it, though. There are things I can control, and things I can't. I can't control the length of summer, or the amount of sunshine we're (not) getting this year. I can''t really impact the life cycle of the plants. I can't change the fact that Bambi helped himself to my growing carrots and strawberries. (Note to Bambi: yes, I'm still mad.) I can make sure that everything's getting enough water and nutrients. I can stake and prop and weed and try to give my plants the best chance possible. I can re-sow the carrots and try to bring my strawberry plants back to life. I could build a greenhouse, but seriously, we just rebuilt the wall and that's not gonna happen until next year (at least!) And finally, I can plant 4 different types of greens as well as some nasturtiums in an attempt to stave off salad fatigue.

This is not to say that you shouldn't grow lettuce. Quite honestly, nothing you can buy at the grocery store, or even (gasp) the farmer's market will beat the flavour of the lettuce you pick ten minutes before sitting down to eat. It's also obscenely easy to grow. Just don't plant too much of one variety, especially if your friends and neighbours also have gardens. After a point, you won't be able to give the stuff away. Try some nasturtiums, or other edible flowers, too. They add a nice mild flavour, but more importantly some colour contrast. They make my salad pretty and happy. And that makes me pretty happy. At least until I start getting some peas. Or beans. Or carrots. Or tomatoes. Or really anything that isn't green and leafy. On that note, anybody need some arugula?

I Like Men

Gardens, vegetables, blah, blah, blah. Today, I want to talk about men. I like men. Always have, and presumably always will. I've known some really great ones in my lifetime: my dad, brother, husband, teachers, coaches, friends, co-workers, even most of my ex-boyfriends. My son will be a great man one day, if I manage not to screw him up too badly. All in all, I would say that 95% of the males I've encountered are really good guys. I've crossed paths with some of the other 5% (there are probably one or two ex-boyfriends in that group, too), but my momma taught me to "never let one bad apple tarnish the whole bunch."

That's why when I read the title of the article The End of Men, my first thought was "don't go quite yet, please." However, when you get into the meat of the article (and it's a long one, so give yourself some time) it's author, Hanna Rosin, has some really interesting statistics and observations about the tipping of the gender balance in the work force in favour of women. One theory is that in today's marketplace, the interpersonal skills traditionally associated with women are a valuable commodity. It makes perfect sense. The earth's population has exploded; people are everywhere. Of course most of the jobs out there deal with managing people, their wants and/or their needs. If you don't have some semblance of emotional intelligence, you may not thrive in this economy. Ms. Rosin does acknowledge that the statistics are slightly skewed due to the current economic depression, as the construction and manufacturing industries take massive hits in these troubled times. However, the trend seems to indicate that the era of male dominance is coming to a close.

Despite the brilliantly provocative title of her article, I don't think that Ms. Rosin is suggesting that the days are numbered for the males of our species. Nor are we heading for a reversed version of Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale. Perhaps what we're inching towards is the end of uber-masculinity. The end of in-your-face machismo. That barnyard-rooster of a man who struts around with his chest puffed out believing that everyone is entitled to HIS opinion (there's a reason these fowl are called 'cocks'). And really, good riddance; knuckle-dragging was so 50 millenia ago. Today's men are generally more aware, more emotionally available, more involved in raising their children. There's still some ground to cover, but we're getting there. We need to value and encourage ALL forms of strength (physical, intellectual and emotional) in all of our children, regardless of their gender. Rarely do I hear someone assert that "boys don't cry," and I will correct anyone who says so in front of my son. We can't deny our children emotional expression and then expect them to be fluent in it as adults. I'm not suggesting that anyone cry at the drop of a hat, or cry over spilled milk, but not crying when the tears want to come can lead to a build of of stress hormones, which can be detrimental to one's health. To put it in guy-speak, it's like blue balls for the eyes. If you don't get that release, your eyeballs may explode. (Okay, maybe I made that last part up, but the part about the stress hormones has been documented.)

My bottom line? I don't think men are going anywhere. And while there are definite differences between males and females, many more of them are learned rather than innate. So let's encourage our children to be full, well-rounded human beings, and perhaps the pendulum will finally come to rest in a place where we can understand and value eachother without pre-judgment or expectation. In short, world peace.