Climbing Mt Washmore...

When people hear that I have three daughters, the response is always the same.

"THREE GIRLS??!!" they gasp, "THREE??!! Oh, my God, the HORMONES in your house must be UNBELIEVABLE!"

Well, let me tell you something. The hormones I can handle.

It's the laundry that's going to kill me.

I am absolutely dumbfounded by the amount of dirty clothing my children have the ability to produce on a daily basis. At our house, EVERY day is laundry day... it has to be. Otherwise, the rapidly accumulating pile that I have come to know as "Mt Washmore" will eventually grow to a capacity capable of asphyxiating me, should it ever collapse in my general direction.

Is this laundry crisis my fault? Well, MAYBE. After all, isn't every problem eventually blamed on The Mother?

When my first child was born, I was completely besotted with her. She was so tiny, so beautiful, so perfect in every way... and the CLOTHES FOR GIRLS WERE SO DARNED CUTE!! I don't know any mother who has been able to resist the almost biological urge to wrestle their newborn daughter into one frilly, be-ribboned outfit after another. Especially when it's your first baby. I absolutely confess, it was probably ME who instilled the idea that it was acceptable-- ENCOURAGED, even-- to change clothing no fewer than about ten times per day. And we're talking changing for pure pleasure here, not just for the obvious reasons of spitting-up and explosions from the other end... By golly, we were going to get the MAXIMUM use out of all those glorious little tiny outfits, before they were outgrown!!

Child Number One turned into a BIT of a fashion plate, as a result. My background in theatre costuming didn't help the matter, either. Not only was I buying for her, but I was sewing for her, too. And then taking PICTURES of the things that I had sewn... Number One loved every minute of it-- she embraced the whole gig, posed for the photos, and smiled sweetly...

The real trouble began the minute she learned to undress herself. It seemed that no sooner did I have that kid all dressed up to the nines, hair-face-and-teeth shining... but she wanted to tear it all off and start all over again. It had become Sport. There were clothes strewn all over the place, and it was useless for me to try and decide whether things had been worn for any great length of time... I just raked it all up at the end of the day, and threw it into the laundry basket.

Child Number Two, aged six, on the other hand, is a TOTALLY different specimen. To this kid, clothes are a pain. They are here to cover our parts, protect us from the elements, and that is all. This kid has a closet so full of books and hand-me-down frilly dresses, we can hardly see the books. And the dresses NEVER get worn... except on those rare occasions (ie. trips to Grandma's house, or photo day at school) when looking presentable is necessary, and I'm up for The Fight. Actually, I need to stockpile energy drinks for about three days prior so that I'll be PREPARED for The Fight. She's that feisty.

Child Number Two not only produces laundry, she NECESSITATES laundry. Her nickname is Twister for a reason. Wherever she goes, she leaves horror and havoc in her wake, and her clothes show it. She goes through a minimum of three to five outfits per day... most of which she just blows through from sheer wear-and-tear. Interestingly, once she is home from school, her outfits of choice are always summer clothes, no matter WHAT the weather is doing outside. We can have just returned home from Kindergarten in a BLIZZARD, and the child will rip upstairs to change from her paint-and-white-glue-encrusted jeans and sweatshirt into her favourite glittery Minnie Mouse tank top and a pair of shorts. That is, unless she can lay her hands on her favourite mint green polka-dot bikini first. I tried convincing her to wear seasonally appropriate clothing for the first couple of years of her life, but have since decided that it's just easier to let it GO, unless we're going OUT.

Child Number Three, by comparison, is a dream come true. She's just two and a half, and I'll be damned if I'm going to teach her to dress and undress herself until she's ready to leave for university. No button, snap and velcro demonstrations for THIS kid, that's for sure. The trouble is, she's messy. REALLY messy. And fast. She can climb up on counters and cram that stash of leftover Easter chocolate into her mouth faster than you can blink. She can get her mitts on my makeup box and have "decorated" her brand new shirt with my brand new lipstick in under five seconds flat. And, most recently, she proved that she can stand on a stool and two phonebooks, reach across the bathroom counter for the vaseline, and THOROUGHLY mousse her hair with it before anyone even has an inkling that she's missing from the group... When I do her laundry, I'm tempted to throw that little shrimp into the washing machine, too, just to save the effort at bathtime. Of course, I'd have to add a little more detergent and a couple of extra rinse cycles... Oh, it's tempting, all right.

So, bring on the hormones, girlie-girls, bring 'em on. If I can survive a decade of scrubbing out your toughest stains, your puberty ought to be a walk in the park by comparison. Unless, of course, scaling the peak of this next load does me in, first...

Mother Among Mothers, Goddess Among Goddesses...

What the world needs now... is more women like June Callwood. She was Mighty, all right-- a Mother in every sense of the word, and not just to her own four children, but to ALL peoples' children: the impoverished, the abandoned, the sick... Whenever she heard of a good cause that needed support, she'd simply say, "Sign me up!" And immediately, she'd set to work trying to right the wrongs, and fill the gaps that she saw in our society.

Her life was far from easy. She had a difficult childhood, and left school to take her first job at a newspaper at 15. Most difficult of all, she endured the ultimate hardship: losing a child, her youngest son, Casey, in a drunk driving accident when he was only 20. The idea of outliving my children is absolutely unfathomable to me... but again, June led by example, summoned all of her strength and courage, and soldiered on. She founded "Casey House", Toronto's first AIDS hospice, named it for her son, and began supporting and caring for AIDS patients (and their families) at a time when the disease was still "taboo" in this country. She also founded "Digger House" in 1967, as safe housing for hippies (her eldest son was one of them), as well as "Jessie's House for Teenagers", "Nellie's" women's shelter... The list of causes that she championed is nothing short of staggering.

Where did a woman who was a busy wife, mother of four and career woman find all of that extra time and energy to do so much GOOD? This is an important question, people. It is one that we must all ask ourselves... because now that June Callwood is gone, we've got some pretty big shoes to try and fill here on this earth. Perhaps if we all make an effort to do just a little bit more with our lives... to reach out just a little bit more to people in need... Maybe as a GROUP we can carry on one Goddess' great legacy.

"If any of you happens to see an injustice, you are no longer a spectator, you are a participant. And you have an obligation to do something."

--June Callwood

1924-2007

Lookit ME, Mum!!

My second child, who is six, approached me this morning, fresh from performing her early morning toilette.

Child Number Two: Lookit ME, Mum!! I'm having a GREAT hair day!!

Mother: Wow, kiddo! Looking good!!

She then skipped away, on clouds of happiness...

Mother: Amazing what happens when she actually BRUSHES it...

I am reading...

"My Life in France", by Julia Child with Alex Prud'homme

I love Julia Child.

Her enormous frame crammed behind that old wooden chopping-block counter of hers, merrily juggling carving knives and occasionally dropping large cuts of meat on the floor... all the while, whooping advice, such as, "Remember!! You are ALONE in the kitchen!!" Hers was one of my favourite shows. That voice... that je ne sais quois... she was encroyable.

This book is chock-full of Julia. It is written in her voice, using her "lingo", complete with all of her colourful interjections: "Ouf!!" " Phooey!!" and even, "Merde, alors!!"

Hers was a fascinating life, and she was a colourful, intelligent and diligent person. She was always striving to better herself, to become more "worldly", and to share her incredible knowledge and enthusiasm with other people.

She was also an intensely humble and private person. Her husband, Paul Child, was not only the love of her life, but also a great inspiration and help to her. As well as being a highly talented artist and successful American diplomat in France, Germany and Norway, he actively supported Julia's work in every way imaginable. He took the photographs to instruct the illustrator of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking", he taught the wine component at her cooking school, and even hastily washed dishes in large tubs of cold water behind the scenes at her book promotions/demonstrations... Their relationship was one of two truly dedicated soul-mates.

This book is delighting me. It makes me laugh. It makes me hungry. It makes me want to work at becoming a more curious and adventurous cook...

I can feel myself slipping a little...

Yeah, but...

This afternoon, I was looking after my friend's little girl, who is about to turn four. She is, unlike my two youngest daughters, the quiet type... You know, the one who always behaves, who is gentle and sweet and just makes you melt every time you so much as LOOK at her...

And then there's my two. They are delightful and lovable in every single way imaginable (I won't go gushing on here, just need to make enough of a statement to qualify as a disclaimer)... but let's just say that at ONE point this afternoon, their behavior was LESS than perfect. It was at craft time, to be specific. All three little girls were seated around my enormous kitchen table, wielding glue and scissors and markers, and cutting-and-pasting as though their lives depended upon it. Things got a little RAUCOUS, shall we say, when Child Number Two, who is six, began "showing off" for the company. When I politely suggested that she pipe down, she all but flipped me The Bird.

Mother: (appalled) THAT'S not appropriate behavior, especially not in front of company! I CERTAINLY don't think that your little friend would talk to HER mother that way!!

Child Number Three: (after a moment of thought... and she's TWO AND A HALF...) Well, HER mummy NICE...

Help me, I'm drowning, here...

A little life secret revealed...

People, I'm going to let you in on a little life secret... If you have a good, big macaroni and cheese casserole stashed in your freezer at all times, you have a secret weapon against all the trials and tribulations that life throws at you. Macaroni and cheese is the ULTIMATE comfort food. Over the course of my reign as Domestic Goddess, I have learned to keep not one, but TWO in my downstairs freezer, just in case: one for me, and one to give away to needy and deserving people. I have taken this dish to people who have just given birth, moved house, have been stricken with all manner of illnesses, from cancer right down to the flu... In many cases, it has been the Mother of the house who has been stricken by illness, while the rest of her family is in fighting form and ab-so-lute-ly STARVING... I'm telling you, this dish is The Bomb.

Because I am a benevolent Goddess, and because I trust that all of you reading this share my feeling that There Is No Better Gift Than Food, I am going to share my recipe with you. I warn you, however, this is not food for the faint of heart (or the intolerant of lactose). This macaroni is a caloric orgy; a complete bliss-out for the senses. I promise that it will not only fill your stomach, it will lighten whatever load of worries you are carrying.

Now, throw that diet book right out the window and get cooking!!


The Ultimate Macaroni and Cheese

6 c cooked macaroni
1 small package of Velveeta cheese (or half of a larger package)
3 c old cheddar cheese
1 c Monterey Jack cheese
1 c Swiss cheese
3 eggs
2 c half and half cream
1 c sour cream

Cube the Velveeta, and grate all other cheeses (use a food processor for this, if you have one, or you're going to wind up with a sore elbow, and a few grated fingers to boot). Beat the eggs and cream in a large bowl, and then add the cheeses and stir. Combine with the cooked macaroni.

Place into a one huge, greased casserole... or two, smaller round ones. Top with additional grated cheese.

(Now is the time to cover one casserole firmly with heavy duty saran wrap and tin foil, and put it in the freezer. Thaw it completely before putting it into the oven.)

Bake at 350 degrees for 35-40 minutes.

This recipe is courtesy of Oprah Winfrey... obviously from her pre-diet phase...

April Showers... not to mention the Freezing Rain...

Okay, Raffi, bring it on!! We need sunshine around here, and we need it BADLY. It's absolutely British outside (hey, if anyone's allowed to say that and use it as a derogatory comment, it's ME). Let's suffice it to say that if "April Showers Bring May Flowers", well then, my garden had better be friggin' SPECTACULAR in a couple of weeks...

The kids are exhausted and whiny, and the damp cold and lack of light is fraying what's left of my nerves right down to their exquisitely sensitive nubs...

This calls for SERIOUS measures, people: a fire in the fireplace, a "televisual feast" on the goggle box this afternoon ("Singin' In The Rain" with Gene and Debbie and Donald, what else?) and comfort food for supper. Let's hear it for home-made macaroni and cheese!! AND... maybe a niiiice glass of chardonnay for the hard-working mum...

I'm starting to feel better already.

Don't mess with Mum...

This morning, my husband and I were in the kitchen and engaged in a Loud Discussion. To be honest, I can't remember exactly WHAT we were Discussing, but it was clearly a doozie of a subject, because I wound up storming out of the room.

From a distance, I overheard:

Child Number One: Daddy? DON'T BUG MUM.

Father: Huh?

Child Number Two: Don't make her mad, Dad. She'll ground ya, and I'm SERIOUS.

Yet another Great Victory for the Domestic Goddess...

AAAUUGGGHHH!! Okay, you caught me...

Okay, you caught me. Stacy and Clinton, I confess. I'm guilty. I wear the uniform of a mother: I don the same outfit... EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

All you mothers out there know what I'm talking about. We all wear it. It's that wonderful, comfortable ensemble that WORKS... We find it, and then we buy MANY of them, so that we can rotate them through the laundry over and over and over again...

My uniform varies with the weather. When it's cold out, I wear jeans and a turtleneck. When it's warm out, I shorten the jeans to capris, and top them with a t shirt. I have these outfits in a multitude of colours, and I confess that I buy in bulk... When I find something that fits me, is wash'n'wear, and doesn't cost me an arm and a leg, I buy it. Okay, I buy MANY. Black and white are staples, but depending on the season, I'll wear the same shirts in every colour of the rainbow.

Stacy and Clinton, it's no secret that you have NO idea what it's like to raise children. Saying that you have "nieces and nephews" that you occasionally spend a little time with doesn't count. Until you've been through the incredible yo-yo experience of pregnancy and post-partum figures, and then the very PHYSICAL act of mothering small children, you have precisely NOTHING helpful to say about this matter.

For my clothes are not simply things that make me look good. At any given time, my clothes must be able to withstand being barfed, slobbered and snorfled on. They have to see me through children's birthday parties with ridiculously outlandish themes, through gruelling hours of laundry, house and yard work, and through the grocery store with three kids swingin' off of the sides of my cart. I have to be able to go from baking a zillion cookies with a toddler, accompanying a hysterical six-year-old to the dentist, to looking semi-believable at a PTA meeting in under 30 minutes flat.

I don't have TIME to change my clothes, much less worry about them.

And as for accessories? Well, let's just say I ain't no Imelda Marcos. This simply isn't the type of lifestyle that can accommodate "kitten heels", or any other sort of heel, for that matter. When you're chasing children, you need basically two types of shoes: trainers and crocs. Oooohhh, I LOVE my shoes, all right, but according to you, not for the "right" reasons. They're comfortable, and they allow me to go FAST. Almost as fast as that two-and-a-half year old who is hurtling top-speed down the driveway on her tricycle... Luckily, in MY choice of shoes, I can sprint just fast enough to GRAB HER before she hits traffic. Do you SERIOUSLY think I could accomplish this in the footwear you two are touting?? Nay, nay!!

And purses... Hmm. Well, I WAS actually paying attention last fall when the Large Handbag came into vogue... My first thought? "I wonder how many diapers I could fit into that sucker..." Mothers of the world rejoyced when that trend hit the runways! I now feel TOTALLY prepared, wherever I go, with only ONE bag to lug around. However, somebody who WASN'T prepared to deal with my new purse was the security man at the front door of a huge theatre event my husband and I attended several months ago... I handed my bag over for inspection, and passers-by stopped to stare at the myriad treasures he slowly revealed from its depths. There were no fewer than seven pacifiers, several matchbox cars, five diapers, a burnt-out halogen bulb, a chocolate chip cookie, an empty apple juice box, two asthma inhalers, a Polly Pocket with one leg missing, a comb with two mis-matched barrettes clipped to it, an unfinished application for summer camp, a bic pen that had run out of ink, and an empty bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol. Go figure. The kicker was, I discovered that I had completely forgotten my wallet.

So, Stacy and Clinton, I will not be surprised if I wind up on your "Worst Dressed" season finale... But you know what? I like my clothes, and I'm proud of the job that I do... My kids are happy, abundantly loved, and relatively well-adjusted. What's more, so am I. The clothes that I wear are not really a "uniform" per se... They're more like a super-hero outfit. I may not LOOK exactly like Wonder Woman, but I am.

I'm not so sure I could do what I do, and feel this good about it if I was wearing, say, $200 shoes and dry-clean-only pants, and someone dropped the top-half of her rocky-road ice cream cone on me...

So you know what? You can keep your $5000, unless I'm allowed to use it exclusively at Old Navy.

Deal?

"Getting Ready for School"

Tuesday morning, 8am. Children are supposed to be upstairs brushing teeth, washing faces and doing hair. Mother is downstairs in the kitchen, frantically attempting to take a stab at cleaning up the breakfast rubble, while at the same time packing lunches, checking emails and putting on her makeup.

A squabble breaks out on the upper floor...

Child Number One: MOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!

Mother: (wearily) Yes?

Child Number One: This little CREEP has been in the bathroom just running the water and pouring soap down the drain for the past FIFTEEN MINUTES!!!

Mother: (clearly onto her) How do YOU know? What have YOU been doing for the past fifteen minutes?

(Squabbling abruptly stops)

Mother: (quietly satisfied) Ex-aaaaaaaact-ly...

The Books are Taking Over the House

I've got a spring cleaning resolution to try and keep this week... I have to go out and buy new shelves. A LOT of new shelves. You see, the books in this house are taking over.

To say that we are book lovers is quite possibly the understatement of the century. We are bona-fide book NUTS in this house. My husband and I are Readers... I've got a degree in English literature, and as well as his full-time job, my husband is also a journalist... Words are important to us. As I mentioned a couple of days ago, we are record-breaking library fine offenders, because we just can't seem to let good books GO once we've got them in our house.

But, to tell you the honest truth, it isn't actually the grown-ups' books in this house that are causing the crowding problem... It's the kids'. The "Kiddie Litter", as I affectionately call it. Even with all my high-fallootin' education-- I studied at the place where, on any given day, you could find Northrop Frye, Robertson Davies and Margaret Atwood strolling around and lecturing-- I still find that children's books are my absolute favourite things to read. I began collecting in my teens, and frustrated the hell out of some of my university professors by drawing quotations from authors like A.A. Milne, Beatrix Potter and Robert Munch into my formal research papers... MOST of those papers were actually SUPPOSED to be about Shakespeare... HOWEVER, the points were always relevant in some shape or form, and the profs kindly indulged me, whilst encouraging me to PLEASE take the actual courses offered on Children's Lit and purge this obsession out of my system.

The formal Children's Lit courses didn't sit well with me, however. I didn't WANT to look deeper into the subtext of The Wind in the Willows and discuss the possibility of Rat and Mole's homosexual relationship. I didn't want to even THINK about what was actually going on behind the scenes with Pooh and Piglet, much less muse upon why Pooh was ACTUALLY called "Pooh"... What I discovered from these courses was that adults run a very great risk of RUINING children's literature, because they take it Too Seriously.

So, I went back to book-collecting, in the hopes that someday, my future children would enjoy them as much as I do.

And WHAT a library those children now have! Raising Readers has never been an issue in our house... They have not been raised with any other option. In this house, we read. We HAVE to read. We have to read, because there are books EVERYWHERE. They're in our bookcases, on our bedside tables, on the ends of our beds, in the toyboxes, on the stairs, on coffeetables, wedged between the sofa cushions, in the bathrooms, in the car... and falling out of everybody's clothes closets. Can you BELIEVE it??!! We've actually run out of space in everybody's bedrooms, so we've been storing books in our clothes closets. This is a big problem, because I'm raising three girls... and like me, my girls LOVE CLOTHES. Tonight, I had no choice but to face the fact that books-in-the-closets technique just isn't working anymore... While attempting to put away my children's laundry, a large pile of hardcovers teetered dangerously and collapsed, and the multiple impacts with my shin-bones are going to result in some interesting bruises...

So, it's limping off to the furniture shops I go tomorrow... Looking for wall units to line our upstairs hallway. My goal is to have all of the books OUT of my girls' rooms and in the hallway instead, so that if I want to read a certain bedtime story to someone, I won't have to cringe when I realize it's hostage in the bedroom where the two year old has just fallen asleep...

My husband thinks I'm nuts. Why on EARTH would we invest in shelving for massive amounts of children's books that will just be outgrown??

Well, honey, the little girls may eventually outgrow their book collection. But I hate to tell you, this big girl definitely won't.

Back to school TOMORROW...

Mother: Okay, girlies, everybody get your backpacks and clean 'em out!! Time to get ready for school tomorrow!!

All Children In Unison: (slightly muffled because of mouth-fuls of chocolate) AAAAAAAWWWWWWWWW!!!!

Child Number Two: Hey, Mum, what day is it today?

Mother: Today is Monday. Tomorrow will be Tuesday.

Child Number Two: I don't think I hafta go back TOMORROW. I'm pretty sure my teacher said not to come back till... till about THURSDAY.

Mother: Well, SHE may not want you back till Thursday, but you're going back TOMORROW. Now go and get your backpack!!

Overheard at the Easter Dinner table...

We enjoyed a wonderful Easter Dinner at Grandma and Grandpa's house today, with all family members in attendance. It was an absolutely delicious, dignified repast, until...

Child: I'm done. I want to get down and go and play.

Mother: (wildly attempting to maintain polite atmosphere) And HOW could you rephrase that request?

Child: If I have to eat any more, I'm gonna BARF.

So much for atmosphere... Sorry, Grandma...

Buuuurrrppp... Sorry, kids.

The Easter Bunny Was Here!! This morning at 6.35 am (a record sleep-in for Child Number Two) we discovered baskets crammed full of all manner of delights... and that The Bunny had shared a late night snack with our two guinea pigs, Cookie and Cupcake. As well as leaving a few remnants of the bunch of parsley we left out, The Bunny left a few half-nibbled slices of cucumber-- Cookie and Cupcake must have been feeling generous and tossed them to him from their cage. The Bunny also made free to help himself to the large bag of timothy hay, kept under the gp cage... Hay everywhere. AND, a large, dirty "bunny mark" on the floor just in front of the back door, where he must have landed after jumping into the kitchen. No wheelbarrow tracks outside, though-- it's STILL snowing out there.

We're now "on our way to grandma's house, with our little baskets" for the rest of the day. Hope the highways are clear, and that the extreme, chocolate-induced sugar high doesn't wear off of me before we pull into her driveway!!

Happy Easter!!

Some Things That Easter Brings

Easter duck and Easter chick,

Easter eggs with chocolate thick.
Easter hats for one and all,

Easter Bunny makes a call!
Happy Easter always brings

Such a lot of pleasant things.

--Elsie Parrish

We can't wait till tomorrow!!!

The baskets are decorated and filled with coloured eggs, little dresses and hats are laid out on chairs, tiny pairs of shoes have been shined up...

"Do we have any carrots to leave out for the Bunny?" Child Number Two asked.
"Um.... I think we're going to have to put out parsley, instead, the Guinea Pigs polished off the carrots last night," I informed her.
"Well, that's okay... EVERYBODY leaves carrots. He can see in the dark just fine. He'd be happy to have a change, right Mum?"
"I suppose so," I mused.

"I gots the biggest Easter basket, so I'm getting the most chocolate, right Mum?"
"I don't THINK it works that way..." I said.
Child Number Two thought for a minute.
"Well, IF IT DOES work that way, I'M getting the MOST!!"

It's going to be one Sugar-High of a weekend, folks...

The Happy Part of Good Friday

Three words, people:

HOT CROSS BUNS !!!!!

I LIVE for Easter, when I can get my hands on these things. Toasted lightly, and loaded up with melted butter... Well, if a life experience can get better than this, I'd probably expire while trying it.

It's not surprising that this indescribable wonder of the bread world has its origins in Pagan ceremonies. Later, the Christian church attempted to ban them, but they were just too damn GOOD... So... gluttony won the day. The Christian Powers That Be concluded, "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em", and faster than you could say a Hail Mary, the Hot Cross Bun was converted!! Apparently, the buns are a metaphor for the resurrection of Christ: the flour "comes to life and turns itself into bread". Sounds like a BIT of a stretch to me, but what the hell, right? So long as these things hit my breakfast table every Easter, you can spew just about any religious metaphor you like, and I'll buy into it.

Perhaps it was just this sort of human weakness that prompted Queen Elizabeth I to create a law that limited the consumption of the Hot Cross Bun to religious ceremonies, such as Christmas, Easter and funerals... Liz was quite the rich party girl herself, so I'm PRETTY certain that even if the law applied to HER, she could have dreamed up some excellent excuses for getting her mitts on a few of these fruit-and-nut-stuffed babies whenever the fancy took her...

Can't you just hear the old girl shrilling, "ALL THE MORE FOR MEEEE!!!!"

I sure can.

The Library Police are after me...again.

The phone rang just now, and unfortunately, it wasn't a crank call. It was the local library-- or, let me rephrase that-- it was the AUTOMATED local library.

Since our library went AUTO, things have apparently become much, much easier for those phantom shadows lurking in the background who USED to be our librarians, and much, much more difficult for the borrower: namely, me.

The machine-gun-like voice on the other end of my telephone regretted to inform me that I currently have NINE books overdue. That's GOT to be some kind of record for this family.

I should tell you that we only just recently "got back on to speaking terms" with our library. Or, we WOULD be on speaking terms, if I could just speak to someone there. The automated phone message informed me several months ago that I was in posession of a four page children's board book entitled "Into The Woods", that was running me just upwards of a ten dollar fine. Well, I had not taken out any such book-- the only board books we ever keep in THIS house are our own. I happen to know first-hand that nothin' says TEETHING to a toddler like a good piece of cardboard kiddie lit. We prefer to keep our board books-- and our germs-- to ourselves, and make sure that we specifically steer clear of that particular aisle.

It took weeks and weeks for me to solve this dilemma... mostly because I couldn't find a human being in charge of the children's department to talk to me face to face. I finally resorted to sending assertive emails, but by the time I received any response from the phantom librarian, they had racked up an added $6.50 "search fee" for apparently sending a human being to the shelf to glance around for the book in question. Hell, for $6.50, I would have jumped into the minivan, driven over and done it myself. They also took the added precaution of suspending my card, which they claimed was "standard policy" for anyone with a fine over $10. It's as close as I've ever felt to being on the FBI's "Ten Most Wanted Fugitives" list.

I finally gave in and paid the fine in full during March Break, using my debit card at the machine, of course. After all, how long could my girlies do without fresh books to read? I mean, without bankrupting me at the bookstore and driving me crazy in the meantime??

I gave in. And it was worth it. My kids charged into that children's section like dehydrated desert travellers bolting towards an oasis... We whittled the selections down to three books each, and headed for the checkout terminal.

That was exactly three weeks, less two days ago. By my calculations, the books that tonight's automated telephone voice claimed were overdue AREN'T actually due back at the library until Saturday. But, after the last experience, far be it from ME to argue with machinery. I've learned the futility of expending one's angst and frustration upon a giant, all-powerful and utterly unfeeling computer system.

"Maybe they'll want our car this time, " commented my husband when I finished ranting about how much the fines would be THIS TIME.

"Maybe they'd settle for the kids," I mused hopefully...

The Spring Concert

Today, we were at the very first school concert for our youngest daughter, who is two. Actually, she is just a little bit over two-and-a-half, and I know this because in Ontario, a child MUST be a minimum of exactly two years and six months before they are allowed to attend a registered nursery school. My daughter and I started nursery school together in September-- the very kind staff allowed her to begin with her peers, providing that I stayed with her until she came of age. This turned out to be of tremendous benefit to both Tiny Two and me-- I was delighted to be able to "ease" her into the new environment. We were able to get to know the other children and parents in the class pretty much from the get-go. It's thrilling to work with very small children and watch all their "lightbulb moments". I hope that I was able to help the teachers get all of those delightful little kids off to a really good start.

By the end of December, my baby was ready to be left "alone" in the classroom, and I had gotten to know the school and the teachers so well that we had absolutely no qualms about it... Our favourite teacher still scoops Tiny Two up every day and carries her to the "goodbye window", which is the window where the children wave to their parents as they depart each morning. I leave with a full heart, but knowing that she is literally in loving arms.

Today, Tiny Two dressed for school with special care. We managed to talk her into a beautiful little corduroy dress with flowers all over it, rather than the frilly little organdie number we had chosen back when it was still SPRING around here... When we arrived at the school, she was a picture straight out of Mary Engelbreit as she waved to me at the window.

My husband and I arrived back at the school an hour later, armed with the usual parental parephenalia of a camera and videocam. Tiny Two is our baby-- our LAST baby-- and we're not going to fall into the "third child" trap and miss out on it.

As soon as she saw us, our little daughter leaped from the chair where she was sitting "on stage" with her classmates, and instinctively rushed towards us. And why not? This is the way she always greets us-- arms wide open, grin so big it could bust her little cheeks. Her favourite teacher caught her just in time, gave her a cuddle, and seemed to be re-explaining the concert procedure. Our little girl sat back down, looked at us wide-eyed, and gave a teeny wave.

The concert was wonderful. There was plenty of good, loud singing, lots of action, and great costumes (including hand-made bunny ear hats and little cotton-ball tails fastened to behinds with big safety pins). Everyone clearly had a super time.

Throughout all of this, however, our Tiny Two stayed silent. No singing, no actions-- just big, wide shoe-button eyes taking us all in. At one point, she rolled up her skirt in her hands, but that's about the most she did. The teacher she was sitting next to provided plenty of encouragement and reassurance, but our girlie remained the best little statue on the stage.

We videotaped it all, anyway. And, on the way home in the car, I held up the camera and said, "Hey! Why don't we watch this on tv, and then you can show Daddy and me how you sing and dance, WITHOUT all those people watching you? You could teach us how to do all the songs, too!"

It was then that she revealed that she had NOT, actually, been nervous about performing in front of an audience. She proudly said, "Teacher said I had to sit down on chair and NOT MOVE! I NOT MOVE, Mum!! I did it best of all!!"

My baby. My daughter. An absolutely perfect "chip of the ol' block". Above all else, she does as she's told. And she'll follow instructions to the letter, no matter WHAT other people are doing around her.

"Poor little kid," muttered my long-suffering husband.

Oh, well. At least we've got ONE obedient child...

The Easter Bunny had better be a Snowshoe Hare...

By golly, the Easter Bunny had BETTER be a Snowshoe Hare... or at least know how to get AROUND in snowshoes... The temperature here dropped like a bomb during the night, and my girls and I awoke to a frightening amount of the white stuff (what we call the "s-word" in this house. THAT's how much we hate winter).

I made the mistake of muttering to myself about The Bunny and Santa Claus getting mixed up this year, and Santa showing up here on Saturday night by accident. I was clearly overheard, because the panic-stricken six and two year olds immediately fell about howling in unison. Yessiree, it's clear which holiday is preferred in THIS family. Santa may bring the toys, but The Bunny brings CHOCOLATE, which is hands-down the undisputed preference.

Who knows, kids? Maybe Santa will show up anyway, and offer to HELP the poor Bunny, who is certainly going to have a rough time getting that little wheelbarrow of his up the hill in our back garden this weekend... Maybe Santa and the reindeer will give him a lift in the sleigh. But, they'd better not sample too much of the Easter merchandise, or we'll have to get a MUCH bigger chimney in preparation for Christmas, 2007.

The Many Faces of Dinnertime

God, I hate dinnertime... you know, that awful period between about 5 and 6.30 pm, when the kids are BEYOND exhausted, bored out of their skulls, and NOTHING will amuse them, not even television. Above all else, they are STARVING. Ravenous, even. But, because it is so late in the day, you don't want to give them a snack, for fear of spoiling their appetites. Of course, what eventually results from all of this is an absolutely mind-blowing, life-threatening, boneless, spineless fit that usually takes place in the middle of the kitchen floor. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you what we at my house call the Arsenic Hour: you either wind up giving it to the kids, or taking it yourself.

So, my question is simple: after all of this incredible fuss has subsided, how is it possible that the three little people I live with TURN UP THEIR NOSES at the dinner table, no matter what delectable meal I painstakingly prepare for them? They're hungry, right? They need FOOD. So, why not GOOD food?? More specifically, why is the food that I slave to plan and prepare never acceptable to them?!

Let me just say this in my own defence: I was a child of the 70's, a generation definied not only by the revolting clothing, but also the revolting casseroles our mothers lovingly provided for us. I swore blind that when I had my own kids, I would NOT prepare meals boasting "Crunchy Cornflake Topping!!" or sporting names like "Green Bean Supreme", or "Hamburger Hot Dish" (something my brother, sister and I came to refer to as "Burger-Noodle-Barf"). I would also not stoop to the level of the quick-fix: no "Helpers" or "Sides" out of packages for my progeny.

You name it, folks, I've tried ALL the alternatives. I've bought the specialty children's cookbooks, written by dieticians from every major health facility. I've tried the "cute food" cookbooks that instruct you to cleverly disguise nutritious morsels into ridiculously intricate works of art on a plate (I had to give up this nonsense as soon as baby #2 arrived, and time completely evaporated on me). I've even tried the cookbooks that get the kids to make their OWN meals, only to have the children screech "Now we're supposed to EAT IT??? EEEEWWWWW!!!!!" upon the recipe's completion.

I also confess... reluctantly... that for a time, I embraced that Dark Side of Parenting... and made two meals every night: one for the kids, and another for the adults. The kids' meal consisted of precious few ingredients: usually cheese, bread, peanut butter, milk and bananas... with the occasional green grape thrown in for good measure... But, it allowed my husband and me to occasionally eat what WE wanted, without all the exuberant, offensive fuss.

What happens when you fall into that nasty trap of constantly catering to your children's culinary whims, besides spoiling the living hell out of the little critters, is that Mother Eventually Burns Out. It's just not possible to keep up the job of being a gourmet short order cook for five different customers, three times a day, without 1. being well-paid to do it, and 2. getting days off on a regular basis. Needless to say, the pay and the perks stink.

So, this year, when my youngest turned two, had offically outgrown her baby seat and proved that she could chew and swallow just about anything that would fit into her mouth (but that's another story for another time), I laid down the law with my kids. I told them that from that point on, I was going to cook good, regular food from a good, regular cookbook (let's hear it for the "Best of Bridge" series!!), and they were going to sit at the table and politely try a minimum of three bites of everything on their plates. ONE meal for the whole family. And if they didn't care for it, well then, tough. As Buddy Hackett once famously said, at his house he always had two choices for dinner: take it, or leave it. We were going to try the Buddy Hackett system!!

Well, the system has some flaws, undoubtedly. My six year old has become our resident Rude-Face-and-Noise-Maker, while my ten year old has perfected the WHHHIIIIINNNNE... The two year old throws things: forever burned in our memory is her first full sentence, "NO din-der!! ALL DONE!!" followed by tossing her entire plate of food halfway across the room.

Yup, the system has flaws all right. But, I guess the key to making it through the Arsenic Hour, the "Hour of Power", is to remember who actually HAS the power... We parents have the power to be firm and consistent. And, most importantly, WE have the power to insert wax earplugs before sitting down to dine with the children.

Let's hope that tonight goes better for the Little One... and Me

I am reading...

I am currently three-quarters of the way through Elizabeth Gilbert's new book, "Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia". It is an autobiographical novel, and nothing short of spectacular. It is the story one woman's journey out of despair and confusion, and her quest for spiritual enlightenment and understanding.

Here is a passage that really spoke to me... In it, Liz is at an ashram in India, trying to "lose some of her life's baggage", so to speak. Interestingly, one of the most spiritual and influential people she meets during her time in India is a lanky, irreverent older man from Texas, Richard. He nicknames her "Groceries", because of the heavy emotional load she constantly carries around with her. This conversation that Liz and Richard have marks a monumental turning point in her journey towards spiritual self-understanding:

There is so much about my fate that I canot control, but other things do fall under my jurisdiction. There are certain lottery tickets I can buy, thereby increasing my odds of finding contentment. I can decide how I spend my time, whom I interact with, whom I share my body and life and money and energy with. I can select what I eat and read and study. I can choose how I'm going to regard unfortunate circumstances in my life-- whether I will see them as curses or opportunities (and on the occasions when I can't rise to the most optimistic viewpoint, because I'm feeling too damn sorry for myself, I can choose to keep trying to change my outlook). I can choose my words and the tone of voice in which I speak to others. And most of all, I can choose my thoughts.

This last concept is a radically new idea for me. Richard from Texas brought it to my attention recently, when I was complaining about my inability to stop brooding. He said, "Groceries, you need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select what clothes you're gonna wear every day. This is a power you can cultivate. If you want to control things in your life so bad, work on the mind. That's the only thing you should be trying to control. Drop everything else but that. Because if you can't learn to master your thinking, you're in deep trouble forever."

This is an amazing book. I have never been a "self-help manual" fan. I don't have the patience to read them, quite frankly. But I know that the story of Elizabeth Gilbert's experiences and realizations is going to affect me for a long time to come, and hopefully I'll grow a little more self-aware as a result.

How we spent last night...

Child number three would not sleep!! Not unless she was on my lap, that is...

It's only seven in the morning, and I'm dreading dinnertime already...

Hey! Don't feed the... Oh, what the hell...

Last fall, I bought somewhere in the ballpark of 150 snowdrop, crocus, daffodil and tulip bulbs and lovingly inserted them into my flowerbeds. I had just trotted over to Sheridan Nurseries, the vastly expensive mecca of gardening in our neighbourhood, and chatted with the local Guru about what I should be planting, what colours, and the sequence in which everything would bloom. I envisioned that Spring 2007, and all springs thereafter, would be a TREAT! The wash of colour would begin sometime in March (the Weather Gods willing), last right through till the perennial beds kicked in and the annuals were planted. It would be uplifting, and downright inspiring: the "bonus" before the Digging Season began!!

What I didn't count on, of course, was critters. We have critters in our garden. And I'm not talking about your "Oh, look, there's a sparrow", "Pooh, I just smelled a skunk", "Who knocked the g-d garbage bins over AGAIN?" kind of critters... WE'VE got critters that think they own the place. They think the People Owe Them A Living.

It's my own fault, really, because I listened to my father and started feeding the birds. To say that my father loves birds is a wild understatement. My father is the man who puts up a multitude of birdfeeders every year, choosing different, exotic seed mixes to attract the birds he likes the best, and even hand-grinding his own suet to entice his beloved woodpeckers and nuthatches. I witnessed one of his suet-grinding exercises one unfortunate afternoon, and all I can say is, he prepared that revolting fat and stuffed it into the holes of the rustic log-feeder with the same kind of tenderness that a mother prepares homemade babyfood puree for her firstborn. That's Love.

As much as my father adores birds, he detests squirrels. When we first moved into our new home, one of the first gifts he bestowed upon my husband and me was a squirrel-baffling birdfeeder. Birds who are acceptable to feed, in his eyes, are those who are light-weight (ie. NOT PIGEONS, whom he considers to be rodents in feathered clothing). When small birds land on this feeder, the vast seed-trough remains open... but if a pigeon or a squirrel attempts to nosh, a lid comes crashing down and hides the food, not unlike some sick-o psychological "conditioning" experiment.

My children were not overly impressed by this birdfeeder, although they delighted in the rapidly increasing population of birds we were attracting to our garden. They quickly figured out the feeder's elitist intentions. It didn't take long for the seeds scattered on the ground to attract grey, black and even tiny red squirrels, and the grandiose acrobatics that all three varieties performed in wild attempts to alight our contraption kept the girls in stitches at the kitchen windows for hours. However, in order to reward the squirrels for their Hurculean efforts, my girls began... dare I confess it? They began tossing peanuts out the back door, as adoring audience members toss roses at ballet dancers during curtain calls...

Well, as time went on, the squirrels got bolder. They started rushing our back door every time they saw movement in the kitchen. One enormously fat grey squirrel, when unable to coax the desired meal out of me when he all but banged on the glass, climbed up the brickwork of our house and glared HARD at me through the window over my sink, where I was plowing through a load of dirty dishes!

"DIRTY BEGGAR!!" I heard the voice in my head roaring (with an English accent... WHOSE voice was I hearing in there???) "DON'T. FEED. SQUIRRELS!!!"

But we did. Mainly because, as my middle child pointed out belligerently, "SQUIRRELS ARE PEOPLE, TOO!" What can I say? My kids have me wrapped around their fingers, and I'm a sucker for small, furry creatures. Even if those furry creatures chase me every time I set foot outside...

But back to the flower bulbs. I spent an entire back-breaking day socking those bulbs into the ground, all over my garden. The task was unintentionally thwarted by the "assistance" of my two youngest daughters, who love to help their mummy whenever they can, and never give up a chance to get their hands in the dirt. I had arranged all of the packages of bulbs in piles on our patio, according to the colour-scheme I had drawn up in my mind. While I was in the garage hauling out my garden fork and spade, the girls delightedly "helped me" by opening every single package and pouring the contents into one gigantic pile. Now, the crocus and snowdrop bulbs are smaller, and a no-brainer to separate from the larger ones... but to this entirely self-taught gardener, tulips and daffs look pretty much the same... and the colour scheme? Forget about it.

But, nonetheless, we planted them. By six o'clock, we were filthy and exhausted, and we retired to the house with a sense of tremendous accomplishment and anticipation.

It took me till about noon the next day to notice that the squirrel population in the back yard was slightly busier than usual... and not up to their usual tricks of grand-jete-ing their way onto the birdfeeder. Nope, they were IN the flowerbeds, not flying high above them... At first, I thought, "Huh... it's a little early for those guys to be burying nuts for the winter..."

And then, I saw one. I saw that fat, grey, furry THIEF make off with a bulb in its mouth. By suppertime, I swear, the entire garden had been ransacked. Our local critters must have made like one of those old fashioned Breck shampoo commercials and "told two friends, and so on and so on...", because my garden was OVERRUN with squirrels, and the flowerbeds were TOAST. My beautifully planned springtime treat had turned into a Treat, all right-- my back yard looked like the aftermath of a cop convention at the local Tim Hortons Donuts.

The Sheridan Nurseries Guru had a tremendous laugh at my expense when I returned to consult him about my problem the following weekend... Apparently, that's the reason why he had sold me twice as many daffodil bulbs as he did tulips... But, he neglected to tell me that I should be planting the daffs in a tight circle AROUND the tulip bulbs, because, while tulips are the Big Mac of the squirrel diet, daffs smell and taste bad enough to them to put them off altogether. Had I planted the daffs AROUND small clumps of tulip bulbs, apparently none of this would have happened.

Well, all I can say is, thanks ever SO for SHARING. Too late. Because I've just provided enough sustinance to see the entire squirrel population of my surrounding area through the winter AND mating season, as well.

Twice as many squirrels this spring, and not a tulip in sight. Better buy me another baffling birdfeeder or two...

Or cleaning up after, for that matter...

"Do not, on a rainy day, ask your child what he feels like doing, because I assure you that what he feels like doing, you won't feel like watching."

-- Fran Lebowitz

Monday morning at our house...

My girls LOOOOVE to dress up... and wear my makeup. Sometimes the urge comes upon them at inopportune times, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it (well, not without threatening their little lives, anyway).

Today we are watching...

This is a beautiful film-- one of my favourites. Happy April 1!!

April Fool!!

The best April Fool's Day we ever had in our family occurred when I was about 10. My parents were, and continue to be, benevolent and dignified individuals, and so any hijinks or tomfoolery that went on at our house was traditionally (and regularly) perpetrated by the three offspring. We quickly learned to victimize one another, rather than our parents, who did not tend to take our nonsense lightly.

The day began ordinarily enough. My father got up early, peacefully ate his breakfast while listening to CBC radio, then took my mother her cup of tea and disappeared into the bathroom to get ready for work . We three kids tumbled downstairs in a manner of disarray and noise shortly thereafter. My mother followed on our heels, and swept into the kitchen to feed and organize us all. Once we were out of her hair, she finally had a few moments of peace to collect the newspaper, sit down with her coffee, and peruse the headlines.

It took my mother a good five or ten minutes before she began to suspect something... Something was not sitting right. She returned to the front page of the newspaper and scanned the headlines again... It was then that she noticed the date, printed at the top. The newspaper that she had just collected from the front doorstep and had been calmly reading for nearly a quarter of an hour was exactly ONE YEAR OLD.

I'll never forget the explosive result of this prank-- I don't think I have heard my father laugh as loudly since... It was HE who had carefully plotted for an entire year, saved the newspaper so that it would be in pristine condition the following April 1, and then sneaked silently out onto the front step to exchange it for the newspaper that had actually arrived that morning. I remember that it was raining, and he had even thought to slip it into the little plastic bag that the Globe had been packaged in...

We, his children, were in AWE. Our idea of High Humor up to that point had been whoopie cushions, dribble cups and fake vomit, so to see our father pull a fast one like this on our mother with such suave panache was a truly eye-opening experience. He rose even higher in our esteem that day.

As a result, I do believe that all five of us ALWAYS check the date on our April 1 newspaper before we sit down to read...

Good one, Dad.