third grader

for TWO MORE DAYS. That's it. TWO MORE SCHOOL DAYS and.....

and I have a FOURTH GRADER.

ulp.

first day of summer

The kids are sunburnt and happy, thanks to Beach Day at their school. (My kids' school has fifty-odd children in it, and for the end of term the teachers take the whole school to the ocean for the day. They're braver than I.)

Supper went like this:

"And THEN we built a sand-cake and decorated it with shells and I ate two hot dogs and a cupcake and"

and the other country chimed in:

"And I got sand thrown in my face once but it was an accident and there were these WAVES and I rode them like I was on a surfboard and we had hot dogs and juice and I couldn't eat all the snacks I brought and..."

"I got wet and it was COLD but then I came out and I got a mouthful of seawater and it made me SPIT, spit all over the beach and it was dreckful stuff and then I went in but it was too cold to stay long so we built ANOTHER huge sand-cake except it kept breaking and we'd fix it and it'd break again and"

"Mom my cheeks feel hot. Am I sunburned a little? I smell like sunblock too. Can we go back to the beach again?"

"And then the tide came in and my sand-cake got washed up and...yeah, can we go back?"

I think it's safe to say they had a glorious time.

Happy Summer, y'all.

dreams

Lucy dreams big dreams, dreams where she lunges, all panther-like and sleek, to rake the unsuspecting canine across the eyes and hisses triumphantly as he falls to the ground, mortally wounded. He expires slowly, twitching and peeing himself, as she aloofly licks a paw and wonders how long it will take the humans to clean up the mess in her house.

'Stoopid dog.' thinks Lucy, and smiles in her sleep.

chores

I swore, when I realized I was going to have kids, that I would NEVER be the kind of Mom who cleaned the kids rooms. My Mom didn't, so why would I?

(And a caveat here: I remember getting my bedroom door taken off the hinges for not cleaning it properly, and I remember trying to stuff more than God ever intended to fit under the bedskirt, and I remember staring longingly out my window while I had to FUSS with things,but I don't remember my mother cleaning my room.)

Rosey and Cass both put their laundry in hampers and bring them downstairs. They take their folded clean stuff up too, and put it away. They make their beds (okay, often.) They strip their beds on Sunday, and both can make them again, although R gets frustrated with the bottom sheet and C hates pillowcases. Rosey unloads the dishwasher when asked, Cass sweeps, they both love to mop. They take turns setting and clearing the table*. Cass feeds the dog, Rosey the cats.

Am I proud of them? Hell, yes. Am I an excellent task-master or an incredible parent or (oh, I laugh) some organized phenomenon?

NO.

My brother and I were taught from a very early age that we were part of the household, and that we were expected to do these things. So it made sense for me to carry that on with my kids.

Although, today, when I went into Cass's room and left with a bag and a half of assorted toys, old school assignments, crumpled paper, and bits of mystery plastic,  I thought for a minute I'd turned into one of those women who cleaned their children's rooms.

Then I realized I was just performing a vital safety service and making sure firemen could get to him should there be a fire, and left.

We'll see if he notices when he gets home.

Rosey's room will have to wait for a few days. But, Little Ponies? You're on warning.



*Which sounds like: 'Cass, it's your turn to....' But they DO it.

the two

my gosh, they grow up too fast....

Cass needs his summer shearing. He keeps wanting 'cool-dude' hair, which I think is all well and good until the sideburns get too long and it all starts to look.....messy.  I think next weekend the reign of the Rockstar will come to an end. But wow, he's getting tall.

stanley cupping

Holy crap, I'm getting whiplash from watching the hockey game...

No. Usually I'm not a hockey fan. Or I am, but only in small doses. This year's Stanley Cup battle, though, has everyone gathered around, soda jolting out of cups and chips cascading over the floor (the dog is dee-lighted to help clean up, you betcha) when the puck goes wide and the players caroom off each other.

A study in aggression and motion.

How is this much testosterone legal? Seriously, I think the two teams would cheerfully hack each other to bits with their dull mouth guards given the chance.

But it's a good game. Lots of fast skating and swooping passes.

Maybe Canada will get their Cup back this year.

tree of life

It lives in my father's backyard, back beyond the fence near the pool, near the garage, a cornerstone of the backyard. It watches over the house and the fields and empty barn across the road and sees whatever buzzes by on the county road.

The feeders are nearby, so the tree is usually filled with birds and squirrels, flitting about or caging a seed here or there. Woodpeckers briefly alight, then fly off to softer wood with better rewards. Last year the tree was so full and bushy branches had to be lopped off.

It looked sad and uncomfortable before all this spring rain, but now all the leaves have joyously unfurled and it sings in the breeze and celebrates itself.

Look at me! it calls. Look at me, and see!!

just deserts

Scene: I am on the computer. It has been a verah long day. Bear is watching hockey? something? on tv. The children are upstairs, supposedly getting ready for bed. In reality, this means they're irritating the hell out of each other and trying to make each others lives generally miserable.

I tend to ignore it until it reaches shouting level and I have to go do something about it.

Suddenly, into my quiet evening floats the sound of my much-beloved son's voice.
'Piss off, Rosey. Out of my room!'

My eyebrows climb into my hair. My jaw drops. I wheel around and stare incredulously at B, who is staring right back at me.

There's a small pause. Then Bear shrugs. "Why are you looking at me like that? I don't say that."

Yep. He learned that......
from his mother.

(Bonus points for using it correctly, but still.....)

I should probably go wash my own mouth out with soap. Time to have the 'grown-up words' talk again!

what friendly skies??

Swallowed-down rage in a senior citizen trapped in an airplane on a runway to nowhere smells like cantaloupe, wicked and musky.

The pilot was just admitting even he didn't know why we were still on the ground when she turned to me. 'This,' she intoned, knobby fingers flying with the injustice of it all, 'is intolerable. They act as though we are not human.'

I agreed. We were crammed into a small jet, every seat full, most people hunched in their seats to avoid the low headroom, afraid to fully extend their legs because they might launch the poor fellow sitting in the row in front of them into the seat in front of him (and so on - a domino effect of claiming your rightful space) breathing stale air, and since this was to have been a 'quick' flight, the flight attendant wasn't even bringing the drinks cart around. The idea that we were chickens crammed in a box ready to be taken to market began to take root in my head.

Rose, in the seat next to me, had been on plane after plane today (she was flying back from Italy) and was resolute and pale with the grimness of it all. She was quiet except for a few squawks, exchanging gripes with her friends, her head darting back and forth from where I sat, curving my spine to see out of the window.

Honestly. What good is a window that is placed at chest height? And I'd like to suggest to the airplane industry that they remember that North America is getting fatter and taller, and stop with making the legroom and headroom smaller and smaller, and narrowing the seats. Because if airplane travel is not convienent (which, with the full body scans, the charging for any checked baggage, the ridiculous ticket prices, and the general don't-mess-with-me mentality that 99% of the airport staff have, it's NOT) and it's not fast (over an HOUR and a quarter spent baking on the tarmac at JFK. No official word why.) and it's not comfortable, then why in hell aren't we all taking the train?

I'm not a chicken in a cage, after all.

it's all gone green

and warm....and there's a softness in the air....

Yes, it's Spring. (And I hear you, wondering why on earth I'm talking about this now, I mean, isn't it Spring EVERYWHERE?)

But the sad truth is that in NS it's been pissing down rain for a week and today we finally saw the sun and....

And it was GOOD.


Life is a lot nicer 'round here with a dash of sunshine.

how you doin'?

 (said in your best Joey Tribbiani voice, of course!!!)


Some Sunday night silliness.