I am lucky enough to have met some smart and wonderful people on my ramblings through the internet. EarnestGirl made me sit up and think when she published this today. I went through a similar crisis of conscience a year or so ago about pictures of the kids
(verdict: I don't feel my children's safety (living where I do, with the social skills they have) is compromised by my taking pictures of them when they are young like this. My son is seven and a half - when his face stops changing so much or he's bothered by having his picture up, I will stop. Likewise Miss R.)
and now EarnestGirl has brought up new questions. I disagree with her on some points (I believe she's speaking about an age group different than my children) but I like her reasoning and the way she explains herself....
Go. Read. I'd be interested in what you think.
Sunday, 3 May 2009
Saturday, 2 May 2009
we are all children of fire
We had a fire here tonight.
Not a bad fire, a piled-up-brush-on-purpose fire, a fire that - despite the intermittent drizzle - hissed and crackled and smoked and was hugely satisfying to the kids, who were entranced with the way it chose that log instead of that one, and that brush over here instead of there.
Then the rain cleared for a moment and a rainbow appeared. R took to running full tilt down the meadow, open-armed joyous to be outside and feel the breeze on her skin, and C stood rapt and very close to Bear, listening to how he should be careful but not afraid, cautious but not scared, and I could see him soaking in the new information.
Dusk fell, and the world went muzzy and dark. We pointed out the moon overhead, watched the dark-blue clouds scud by, and listened to the peepers out back. Their faces washed in the colors of the fire as they gorged on (half-burnt) hot dogs and (blackened) marshmallows and had a fabulous time.
Remember being outdoors at night when the world seemed just strange enough to thrill and the fire snapped and popped and everything smelt different and alive?
Now I do too.
Not a bad fire, a piled-up-brush-on-purpose fire, a fire that - despite the intermittent drizzle - hissed and crackled and smoked and was hugely satisfying to the kids, who were entranced with the way it chose that log instead of that one, and that brush over here instead of there.
Then the rain cleared for a moment and a rainbow appeared. R took to running full tilt down the meadow, open-armed joyous to be outside and feel the breeze on her skin, and C stood rapt and very close to Bear, listening to how he should be careful but not afraid, cautious but not scared, and I could see him soaking in the new information.
Dusk fell, and the world went muzzy and dark. We pointed out the moon overhead, watched the dark-blue clouds scud by, and listened to the peepers out back. Their faces washed in the colors of the fire as they gorged on (half-burnt) hot dogs and (blackened) marshmallows and had a fabulous time.
Remember being outdoors at night when the world seemed just strange enough to thrill and the fire snapped and popped and everything smelt different and alive?
Now I do too.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
thursday night commercial, scene nine
I love the expressions on the onion. And today I feel like I resemble the doughnut.
Great song, too.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
yellow spooks them
B's been logging lately, using a chain saw, a tow rope, and the Blazer. It does speed things up to bring the fallen tree up to the woodshed and then cut it into lengths here versus chopping it up in the woods and then bringing pieces out. It strikes me as kind of....well, back-woods, but I guess it's all in the name of efficiency...
(and I KNOW I need to get pictures, I will, I will!)
And, in the continuing dead animal chronicles, last night C came running up to me as I yanked sticks (we's gonna have a brush fire next week) breathlessly announcing, all rounded eyes and surprised mouth - 'A BEE, Mom! A BEE!'
And, of course, Rosey started screaming (because obviously?? A yellow flying anything can be combated with utter and total panic - the noise stops the menace IN ITS TRACKS) and running around in circles, getting white faced and then tear-stained and the cries were ringing over the hills (curtains in the neighbors houses all beginning to twitch) and I sprang to see what was the matter and she was fine.
But still running in circles.
Between zooming around, she managed to fill me in. There was a BEE! In the GRASS! And Cass SAW it!
Explaining how bees like to sit in the spring sun and warm themselves and weren't a threat did NOT help - they were both still spooked and ready to freak out.
Finally, I asked them where they had seen the bee. Cass did some wild swooping gestures and I walked over, finding a tiny bright yellow spot on the grass. I squatted down and poked at it with a stick.
Cass was incredulous. 'Mom! What are you doing? It could sting you! '
I motioned him over.
Um, hon, that would be hard. This bee? Doesn't have a head.
(and I KNOW I need to get pictures, I will, I will!)
And, in the continuing dead animal chronicles, last night C came running up to me as I yanked sticks (we's gonna have a brush fire next week) breathlessly announcing, all rounded eyes and surprised mouth - 'A BEE, Mom! A BEE!'
And, of course, Rosey started screaming (because obviously?? A yellow flying anything can be combated with utter and total panic - the noise stops the menace IN ITS TRACKS) and running around in circles, getting white faced and then tear-stained and the cries were ringing over the hills (curtains in the neighbors houses all beginning to twitch) and I sprang to see what was the matter and she was fine.
But still running in circles.
Between zooming around, she managed to fill me in. There was a BEE! In the GRASS! And Cass SAW it!
Explaining how bees like to sit in the spring sun and warm themselves and weren't a threat did NOT help - they were both still spooked and ready to freak out.
Finally, I asked them where they had seen the bee. Cass did some wild swooping gestures and I walked over, finding a tiny bright yellow spot on the grass. I squatted down and poked at it with a stick.
Cass was incredulous. 'Mom! What are you doing? It could sting you! '
I motioned him over.
Um, hon, that would be hard. This bee? Doesn't have a head.
Monday, 27 April 2009
thievery in a small town
Today was the first day of the Music Festival here - Cass sang his solo (and wasn't nearly as nervous as last year, hurrah!) and then his class sang, beautifully, and did really well. The room was full to bursting with parents and grandparents and good feelings. Smiles and bonhomie abounded - it's easier to cheer on all the different classes when you know a few kids in each -and look how sweet they all looked in their good clothes!
We left - Cass firmly clutching a Participant ribbon - and drove home. It was a beautiful day.
And while we were all watching our children, reveling in the small-town goodness of it all, a police van was pulled up to our school and RCMP officers were patrolling the halls..... because some bastard broke in and stole laptops, projectors, sports equipment, and the goddamned milk money.
I want to go into a tirade of whatthehellisWRONGwithpeople, but I think if I started?
I just might not stop.
We left - Cass firmly clutching a Participant ribbon - and drove home. It was a beautiful day.
And while we were all watching our children, reveling in the small-town goodness of it all, a police van was pulled up to our school and RCMP officers were patrolling the halls..... because some bastard broke in and stole laptops, projectors, sports equipment, and the goddamned milk money.
I want to go into a tirade of whatthehellisWRONGwithpeople, but I think if I started?
I just might not stop.
Sunday, 26 April 2009
there's a beach in my memory
Last night the scent of spring was wafting through the house (First night this year with the windows open! Yay!) and I discovered that I've forgotten things. Things I thought I'd never forget.
Now, I've lived away from home for ten years now, and while I think I could find my way around my old stomping grounds pretty well, I'm distressingly foggy on some points.
Where was that old beach with the overgrown bushes and rotten tire swing? It was out back of a deserted old house, but how did I get there?? All those country lanes stretch out green and tree-shaded in my memory, but which one would I take? Would I remember if I was riding a bike?
Part of me wants to blame it on moving thousands of miles away and having a life (husband, kids, jobs, etc) during that time, while the other part? Shrieks in dismay that I don't remember and how could you forget the place where S first kissed you? What is wrong with you?
Funny, how I remember the moonlight on the beach and the shuss of the waves on the pebbles and thousands of other sounds of that night and can't remember how to locate it.
Now, I've lived away from home for ten years now, and while I think I could find my way around my old stomping grounds pretty well, I'm distressingly foggy on some points.
Where was that old beach with the overgrown bushes and rotten tire swing? It was out back of a deserted old house, but how did I get there?? All those country lanes stretch out green and tree-shaded in my memory, but which one would I take? Would I remember if I was riding a bike?
Part of me wants to blame it on moving thousands of miles away and having a life (husband, kids, jobs, etc) during that time, while the other part? Shrieks in dismay that I don't remember and how could you forget the place where S first kissed you? What is wrong with you?
Funny, how I remember the moonlight on the beach and the shuss of the waves on the pebbles and thousands of other sounds of that night and can't remember how to locate it.
Thursday, 23 April 2009
coo-ee
My library books came in.
And one of them was The Gun Seller.
No, it doesn't sound like most of the other books I read, since I'm really not a mystery/who killed who with what gratuitous violence fan. And the cover looks like a blow-up of a comic book - really not my usual.
But The Gun Seller was written by Hugh Laurie. Yes, that Hugh Laurie. And I was curious.
And 29 pages in, I like it. He writes like a character in a twenties detective flick, all foggy street and dark, devious expressions. But sprinkled in are these really incredible descriptions, like:
But of course you would have got the message. Rayner could have swathed himself in shimmering silk and put an orchid behind each ear, and nervous passers-by would still have paid him money first and wondered afterwards whether they had owed him any.
and
By and by she was sitting on the hideous sofa with half a pint of what I thought was brandy but turned out to be Calvados, and I was standing by the door wearing my smartest and best 'I am psychiatrically A1' expression.
So I'll keep on.
Oh, and when you're reading a Hugh Laurie book? You can hear his voice saying the words as you read them.
And he speaks with an English accent. Coo-ee.
And one of them was The Gun Seller.
No, it doesn't sound like most of the other books I read, since I'm really not a mystery/who killed who with what gratuitous violence fan. And the cover looks like a blow-up of a comic book - really not my usual.
But The Gun Seller was written by Hugh Laurie. Yes, that Hugh Laurie. And I was curious.
And 29 pages in, I like it. He writes like a character in a twenties detective flick, all foggy street and dark, devious expressions. But sprinkled in are these really incredible descriptions, like:
But of course you would have got the message. Rayner could have swathed himself in shimmering silk and put an orchid behind each ear, and nervous passers-by would still have paid him money first and wondered afterwards whether they had owed him any.
and
By and by she was sitting on the hideous sofa with half a pint of what I thought was brandy but turned out to be Calvados, and I was standing by the door wearing my smartest and best 'I am psychiatrically A1' expression.
So I'll keep on.
Oh, and when you're reading a Hugh Laurie book? You can hear his voice saying the words as you read them.
And he speaks with an English accent. Coo-ee.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
21 April
Today was a day for craft projects and bubble baths. For trashy romance novels, and a trip to the library to get serious books I've been waiting for forever. For the weather to go from sun to rain to spits of ice and snow to rain again.
For chocolate and stolen kisses and long phone conversations with people I love.
It was a perfect day, in fact, to turn thirty-eight. So I did.
For chocolate and stolen kisses and long phone conversations with people I love.
It was a perfect day, in fact, to turn thirty-eight. So I did.
Sunday, 19 April 2009
two award-winning parental moments
Rosey was busy with a coloring pad and fancy new crayons while the sermon went on. She requested that I draw things (a heart, my name, a bunny) in a medium whisper, but stayed still and relatively unobtrusive next to me.
The first reader went up. She found her place, pushing her spectacles back on her nose, and began to speak about how we should all be believers.
R stirred. 'Beavers? Does she mean the ones behind our house?'
And I didn't realize how much we push don't play with your food until tonight. Both the kids sat, sharing uneasy looks, eyeing their plates. Finally Cass spoke up.
'We eat these at school. Can I use my hands?'
I nodded. R was clearly bewildered at all the little dishes of toppings. 'Is this salad?'
Lips twitching, Bear showed her how to pick and fill her taco.
'So much for diversity, huh, Jess?'
The first reader went up. She found her place, pushing her spectacles back on her nose, and began to speak about how we should all be believers.
R stirred. 'Beavers? Does she mean the ones behind our house?'
And I didn't realize how much we push don't play with your food until tonight. Both the kids sat, sharing uneasy looks, eyeing their plates. Finally Cass spoke up.
'We eat these at school. Can I use my hands?'
I nodded. R was clearly bewildered at all the little dishes of toppings. 'Is this salad?'
Lips twitching, Bear showed her how to pick and fill her taco.
'So much for diversity, huh, Jess?'
Thursday, 16 April 2009
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