Something Up With Which I Will Not Put

Today's the big day - Colin is FIVE years old!

My little boys are relentlessly growing up.

Yesterday was Robert's 3rd birthday. The theme this year was construction - Andrew and I bought Robert a huge Tonka set (dumptruck and motorized digger). I can't wait to get the FOUR (!!!) C batteries required to operate the digger. The set comes complete with its own plastic boulders, 'cuz, y'know, kids have trouble finding rocks and dirt.

Dina and Steve gave him a great construction set that includes five mustachioed union guys and a Site Office. Colin was playing with it for less than five minutes when he announced "This man is not working today." Colin's pretty sophisticated, for a five-year-old.

Terence and Irene gave Robert a huge Lego dumptruck that comes with a box of Duplo (that's the big Lego). I've been scouring the web for pictures of these toys, but to no avail. But there's an open invitation for those who want to come over and play (with the toys). A dumptruck load of thanks to Terence, Irene, Dina, Steve, Mum and Jeannine for helping with the birthday celebrations.

Andrew was in Toronto all week for IBM Oracle training. Since I was scheduled to teach in Boucherville at the beginning of the week, the kids stayed over at Magdalena's (their former full-time nanny) until Wednesday. So Tuesday night, thinking I had an opportunity to catch up on my sleep, what with having the house to myself and the bed to myself, too, I went to bed nice and early.

The cat meowed for an hour after I went to bed.

The radio went off in the morning and I rolled over, thinking "I feel like I've had no sleep" (or as close to that as one's brain can think on no sleep). I looked up at the clock - to find the cat sitting on top of the radio, and that it was 4:15 a.m.

The following night, with the kids snug in their own beds, the cat was silent all night. So apparently her attempts at communication on Tuesday were meant to let me know that the kids were missing, and how come I wasn't doing something about it. She's a weird, weird animal.

I guess it serves me right, since while Andrew was away, I cheated. That's right, I confess... I had chicken stew at home Tuesday evening. Since Andrew is vegetarian, based on his aversion to animal cruelty, our home is supposed to be meat-free. So I felt a little guilty eating my can of stew... on the other hand, as I told him when I confessed, I am pretty sure the chicken in question died of old age, so perhaps the stew was chicken-friendly. On the other other hand, given his feelings about animal cruelty, it's a good thing he wasn't around at 4:16 Wednesday morning.

Now it's the weekend, everyone's home safe and sound, and life is back to normal. Whatever that is.

I got a present for no reason last night, which is usually a wonderful thing. In this particular case, however, mine was a muted celebration, since the gift in question was a dead mouse (no, it was not pining for the fjords) from Heidi.

This is not the first time Heidi has generously shared her hunting trophies with me; thankfully, she only catches a mouse every 2 years, on average. This time, though, was extra special, because the mouse was stuck to the floor. I had to scrub mouse fur off my bedroom floor.

And it's not even my birthday.

At the St. Patrick's Day parade yesterday

Happy anniversary, happy anniversary
Happy anniversary Haaaaaapy anniversary.
Happy, happy, happy, happy, happy anniversary.

Love you, sweetie. (K)

Tidbits written at the Royal Victoria Hospital

8:23 a.m. So the phone rang this morning at the ungodly hour of 7:30 (it rang prior to that as well, but I guess we were too fast asleep to hear it). After a frantic search for the phone, which was hiding in the kitchen, I retrieved a message from Steve.

So now I�m at the Royal Vic, in the waiting room, waiting.

Dina�s water broke this morning, and she�s at this very moment under the knife, having a baby!!!

As some of you know, this has not been the easiest of pregnancies. Dina�s been watching every mouthful of food since being diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The most recent issue has been the fact that the baby refused to turn, and was presenting in a frank breech (butt first). In Quebec, and many other places, they will not deliver a breech vaginally, and automatically sign you up for a C-section. Dina did go in for a �version,� a procedure with which they try to turn the baby, but at the last minute they decided against it because all the signs were against it being successful.

And now, in just a matter of minutes, I�m going to be an almost-aunt!

9:14 a.m.
It�s a boy!!!!
Bennett Wark weighed in at 6 lbs, 2 oz, moments ago.

I have not seen the new Mom yet, but believe me when I say Dad is glowing. Steve seems very relaxed, quite an accomplishment under the circumstances, and, of course, really, really happy.

I brought my camera, so I will be posting the first pix of Bennett � probably with this post, as a matter of fact. That�s the problem with blogging in advance. I have no idea what the next entry will bring�

1:17 p.m.
I have pictures, but I�m not allowed to post them. Parental priority or some such nonsense. We�re in the post-partum room now, chatting and generally being quietly thrilled. Ben is gorgeous and tiny and miraculous. Post-partum recovery seems to be going well, Dina is happy and only slightly dizzy. Pictures available soon!!

My grandmother is 85. She has all her own teeth, and does not use Miss Clairol to keep her hair brown. She wears a hearing aid, but no glasses. She is definitely all there mentally.

She has Parkinson�s, and is now confined to a wheelchair. She lives in a private room in a nursing home in Ontario. When she needs to pee, she has to ring her bell for help. Geographically, I am her closest relative � and I live more than an hour away by car.

Yesterday, I accompanied her to a liver specialist to try to get to the bottom of her most recent affliction, jaundice. Because of the weakness in her legs and other factors, it is next to impossible to get her anywhere by car, so we had to rely on an ambulance to get her to and from the doctor�s office. Since budget cuts have reduced the number of ambulances serving the area, non-emergency transports like my grandmother�s are the lowest priority, and we waited almost two hours for some one to bring us home after the appointment.

The doctor has recommended a CT scan and an ERCP, which means we�ll have to get her to and from the Civic Hospital in Ottawa, an hour away.

My grandmother is very tired. It�s all she can talk about. She was tired before we started on our grand tour yesterday. By the time the doctor�s appointment was over, she was exhausted. By the time the ambulance finally arrived to bring us home, she was starting to scare me. I had visions of myself having to explain to my dad that� well, you know.

Every time she closed her eyes, I got nervous. I managed to resist the urge to poke her, but I found myself reliving those scary moments as a new mother, watching the chest for breathing, just to reassure yourself that you haven�t inadvertently killed some one.

My grandmother, who taught me to swim and made almond shortbread crescents every Christmas, is tired and weak and scared.

I still remember the way those almond cookies melted in my mouth.

Colin, my six-year-old son, has some interesting ideas. This afternoon, I asked him to look for a pair of nail clippers (the cat is too sharp these days). He returned empty-handed, and announced that he thinks that "God is taking our stuff."

Later, he read a note from his school, which ends with a reminder about next Friday's ped day: "Day care activities must be registered for." Colin read this aloud, raised his eyebrow, and said " 'For' what? I think this is backwards."

Alas, yes, my son has determined that sentence-ending prepositions are something up with which he will not put.

Since a recent entry was devoted to the bon mots of my older son, I felt it necessary to point out that my younger son, Robert, is capable of reducing his parents to giggling fools, too.

Case in point: Dr. T and I have always tried to be very frank and open about body parts and their related functions (which has led to several inadvertent witticisms from Colin, but this is Robert's entry). As anyone with small male children will attest, at some point all small boys discover the joys of their own penises. Robert is at that stage.

We have not told Robert that he can't touch himself, only that his penis is a private part, and, as such, should (a) remain in his pants whenever possible and (b) be touched only when he's alone.

The other day Robert was, um, occupying himself with his penis while I was putting away his laundry in the same room. So I said "don't forget, Robert, that you should only touch your penis when there's no one else around."

Robert's reply: "Ok, Mummy, you can go away now."

Colin and I are both enjoying our Spring Break, albeit without beaches or cabana boys. Yesterday we took the Metro all the way to the eastern end of the Green line, and today, we're going all the way to Angrignon - and we're stopping at every station along the way to get a transfer, just to show we've been there.

Have I mentioned that Colin is six?

Went to the Atwater Market.

Stocked up on fresh veggies and sesame seeds.

Scored some 'nip for the cat.

Happy day for all concerned.

Well, it's Monday. It's just after 10 a.m. Which means that I am in the car, on my way to work for the week...

But wait - no I'm not! I'm at home, tending to flu-ridden child and hubby. Sigh. At least Colin is now old enough to appreciate why one runs to the toilet, so there's been a lot less sheet and comforter washing.

Frankly, the hardest part is keeping Robert, who is not sick but who is four, occupied.

Dina's Dad is in the hospital, in Intensive Care. He'll be having surgery at some point today. I don't have all the details, but it's something with his heart.

Lou has the best heart. He's a warm, loving, generous father, husband and Poppy. He's always treated me like a daughter.

So, please, send a positive thought his way today.

Update

Update, too

Colin and Robert were asking about heritage and nationality - inspired by my claddagh - and we told Robert he was Canadian.

He is now convinced we bought him at Canadian Tire.

Last night at supper, the following conversation took place:

Colin: Do other animals fart?
Me: Yes.
Colin: Do only animals fart?
Me: Yes.
Colin: What kind of things are not animals?
Me: Well, plants, rocks...
Colin: But are spiders animals?
Me: Yes...
Colin: So spiders fart, right?
Well?

So the kids are downstairs, singing to each other.

One is singing 'O Canada.'

The other is singing the 'Mother's Lament' from Disraeli Gears, complete with the Ginger Baker accent.

Well, my work here is done.

Robert got new rollerblades yesterday.

We took the kids to Granby Zoo last Sunday, thanks to my Mum, who provided passes for us. Traffic was a prime pain in the ass, so it took us ages to get there, but once we were there, we picnicked on the lawn, basked in the sun, and had a great time. We each chose one "must-see" animal beforehand, so no one would be disappointed - we knew we couldn't possibly see everything. Colin chose lions, Dr. T. chose some obsure Scrabble-word animal, Robert chose penguins, and I chose tigers.

The lions and tigers were not a problem; however, the penguins didn't actually exist, but Robert was a happy camper nonetheless. As for the weird Scrabble animal, we didn't see one, but we did see an agouti. Woohoo.

Anyway, on a crappy, rainy, Frances-inundated day like today, please enjoy these sunny, happy day pictures.

Colin as a robot, and Robert, well, d'uh

So I took Friday off to be at home with the boys, both of whom had a Ped day. We decided to take advantage of the fact that I was home, and Dr. T arranged for the gas company, GazMet, to send a guy to clean the furnace. Our house is heated by radiators, with the water heated by a natural gas furnace. Our hot water is also gas-heated.

GazMet said the guy would be there anytime between 7 a.m. and noon - but assured Dr. T that the guy wouldn't actually show up at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m.

Can you see it coming?

7 a.m. - GazMet service guy shows up to clean the furnace.

8* a.m. - Dr. T gets into my car, leaving me the other, child-seat-equipped car, and drives off to work.

8:02 - Dr. T drives over a nail.

8:10 - Dr. T comes home, having left the car in the Canadian Tire parking lot, figuring he'll work from home for the morning and get the car sorted out midday.

8:30 - GazMet service guy presents us with a bill for about $145, for parts and labour, then tells us that the chimney is blocked, so he has turned off the gas. He tells us that GazMet won't turn the gas back on until we've had a liner installed in the chimney. What he won't tell us, on the other hand, is who to call to get a chimney liner installed on short notice.

*All times approximate

On Sunday my seven-year-old son announced he wanted to know how to make his own web page.

Tada.

"Would you two please go somewhere else to argue about fembots!?!?"

My sister, Kathryn, has finally produced a female for the next generation! She already has two boys, and I have two boys, and I think my mother was beginning to lose hope. But Elizabeth Claire has arrived.

Ellie was born Monday evening, weighing a healthy 8 lbs 2 oz, and as you can see, she is definitely not bald.

My nephew Simon, who is three and whose sister, Elizabeth, is pretty much brand new, asked his dad why Elizabeth has no penis. Zip told him that because Elizabeth is a girl, she has a vagina instead.

Simon, whose other auntie has just returned from the Far East, now thinks that if you're a girl, you have a "China."

As is, the Great Wall of China.

Company's coming - get out the good china. It's in the china cabinet.

This china's been in the family for generations - it used to be my grandmother's china...

Made in China.

You get the idea.

So Colin and I are both off this week - or rather, Colin is off, and I'm putting a lot of effort into my procrastination.

So far, our time has been spent riding the rails - Colin's fascination with the Metro has not waned since last year, although now he's added the Underground City to his list of must-have experiences. So we've walked the Underground City, we've shopped, we've been to the cinema (The Incredibles), and today - as per Colin's request - we're going to the museum of fine arts.

Colin says that he's been once, but he didn't get to see everything.

We also lunched with Dina and Bill, and Colin has already extracted a promise from me that we'll do that again next year. I assume he wants to relive...

The Duck Jokes

1. A duck walks into a pharmacy and asks the pharmacist "Do you have any duck food?" The pharmacist says "No, sorry, no duck food." The next day, the duck comes back, and asks "Do you have any duck food?" The pharmacist says "No, as I said yesterday, no duck food." The next day, the duck comes back again, and asks "Do you have any duck food?" The pharmacist says "No, we have no duck food. I'm getting tired of you asking me for duck food everyday - if you do it again, I'll nail your feet to the floor, buddy." The next day, the duck comes back, and asks "Do you have any nails?" The pharmacist says "No, we don't carry nails." So the duck asks "Do you have any duck food?"

2. Different duck, different pharmacy - the ducks says to the pharmacist "Do you have any Chapstick?" The pharmacist says yes, so the duck says "Great - put it on my bill."

3. A man walks into a doctor's office. The man has a large duck perched on his head. The doctor says "What seems to be the problem, sir?" The duck says "Well, there's a guy on my ass."

4. (not a duck joke, but the one that made Colin laugh loudest) Two English muffins are in a toaster oven. The first muffin says "Wow, it's hot in here." The second muffin says "Oh my God! A talking muffin!"

Yes, I'd say the education of my son proceeds apace.

Robert was helping me unload the dishwasher yesterday, and I asked him to put away the cutlery. He looked at the contents of the dishwasher and said "that's the furniture you use to eat, right?"

Isabella may have something to say about this one. According to Robert, octopuses have eight "testicles."

Some of you may already know that Robert, our now-six-year-old, has been a little, well, confused, gender-wise, for some time. He likes girly toys, like mermaid dolls, he likes girly images, like unicorns, and he frequently pretends to be a girl, namely Vanessa the Fembot.

In an effort to be hip, modern, with-it parents, we have tried to be accommodating - we even got Santa to bring Robert a Barbie for Christmas (along with her beach buggy and a Ken doll (who now has real hair, by the way)). We have watched unicorn movies with him (although I draw the line at Angelina Ballerina, the cartoon about the white mouse who whines and cries incessantly).

Having said that, we were nonetheless thrilled that Robert expressed a strong desire for the scary Darth Vader voice-changing helmet. So last weekend, for Robert's 6th birthday, we gave him the helmet.

Later that evening, a tiny yet terrifying heavy breather stomped up to Dr. T and said "Muahaha! Do you know who I am?" Dr. T, who's not just a pretty face, said "You must be Darth Vader!"

To which the helmeted figure replied "No - I am Darth Vader's wife!! Muahaha!"

Sigh.

My sister has a blog.

We went to the Ecomuseum and saw many, many cuddly creatures. The otters were particularly playful, and were a large factor in our decision to buy a family pass for the coming year.

I've just posted Colin's first recipe to The Communal Kitchen, for "rice pudding and chocolate shake soup."

Yesterday, Colin started writing a novel.

He read me the introduction, in which the narrator and his brother, Robert, encounter a half-woman, half-cat creature. He then announced that the book will have about thirteen chapters, with no more than one picture per chapter. Also, he's decided he is going to be an author when he grows up (for those of you just joining us, Colin is 8 years old).

He told me that this ambition is why he loves to read: through reading, he can "learn the rhythm of books."

"The rhythm of books" !!!

Naturally, I have to record these thoughts so they're on record somewhere when biographers are looking for material in a few years.

Yesterday was another beautiful day, despite the dire predictions of thundershowers. I met Mum for lunch, then she and I met the kids at the bus, dropped off schoolbags and lunchboxes, and went down to the river for another walk along the bank.

When the kids and I were walking there last Sunday, we were a little dismayed at the build-up of garbage over the winter, and we said that next time, we would bring some bags and pick up some trash. So, this time, that's what we did:

Colin, Mum and Robert (foreground), hard at work

Tada!

We each filled up one bag, and then Robert found a discarded shopping bag and filled that up, too. We found a garbage bin, dropped off our contribution, then continued our walk down to the playground, where Mum very kindly treated us to a reward:

This year's haul:

2 pairs cycling shorts;
2 cycling skorts;
1 round-trip ticket to Halifax to see Alison and her impending arrival;
a lovely tin of tea, complete with tea strainer and a ladybug teapot drip catcher;
several handmade cards, including one with an assortment of coloured feathers;
2, 539 dandelions, more or less.

Colin's medieval castle project

Building materials include tiles from the dollar store, tomato boxes, a Jacob's Creek wine box, a shoe box, moss from my mother's garden, a paper-towel insert, and, since it's a Canadian medieval castle, duct tape.

My little brother has just been named as one of the players representing Concordia on the provincial all-star rugby team.

Robert's music teacher is teaching the kids the anti-war song "Last Night I had the Strangest Dream." Robert's favourite part is the verse about 'the unicorns all splattered on the ground.'

Giggle.

We got a call from the boys' school this morning because Colin couldn't find his lunchbox. Considering that said lunchbox was safely hidden in plain sight beside the front door, I can see why he couldn't find it.

When I picked him up this afternoon, he was sulking because, he said, no one reminded him to bring his lunchbox. Now, while it's true that no one reminded again, it's also true that Dr. T handed him the lunchbox and told him to put it in his schoolbag.

Which explains, obviously, how it ended up on the hallway table by the front door.

Lest you think the child starved, rest assured that the school has an emergency supply of sandwiches for just such an emergency. His was tuna.

This weekend was one of those that renews my love affair with this city - Montreal is home no matter what the weather, but when the skies are blue and the air is warm, the city sparkles and makes me fall in love all over again.

On Saturday, Colin and I hopped on the Metro and rode all the way to Laval, to check out the three new stations that make the upper island accessible to us downtowners.

We stopped at Atwater on the way home and bought Colin a new spring jacket, and then had to have Dr. T. pick us up, as the Metro system was SNAFU, thanks to a fire at Lionel Groulx*.

We got home in plenty of time to get ready for our first official barbecue of the season, with T&I along for the experience - nothing says "summer" quite like barbecued burgers, skewered veggies, and a cool glass of rose. We're choosing to attribute the fact that we ate inside to our 'new' dining room furniture, and not to the fact that it was still, really, too chilly to eat outside comfortably.

Yesterday was even more summery - Colin and I went for a bike ride, to see if the nearby ice cream stand was open for the season yet (it was), and explore a few trails we missed last year. Then, after lunch, we took both boys downtown for a haircut, then stopped at the sports equipment store and picked me up my first real pair of rollerblades. As soon as we got home, we all strapped on our blades, and sped (kind of) off to the ice cream place, and rewarded ourselves with the first cones of the season.

Yay presqu'summer!

*the Metro SNAFU was not part of the "why I love this city" theme ~ nor is the impending transit strike ~ but I choose to see such events as the bitter counterpoints required to enhance the sweetness of the good things. Yeah, that's it.

Yesterday we made our season passes to Laronde worth it with a second trip. In the last few months, Colin has become addicted to RollerCoaster Tycoon II, which is something like the Sims games, but based on Six Flags amusements parks (and the marketing genius of this boggles the mind). The last time we went, Colin said he wanted to ride the Monster, the huge wooden rollercoaster, and one of the few really big rides that he's tall enough to ride. So we headed over to line up, but as soon as he got close and realized just how big the thing really is, he changed his mind. We went through a few "I want to ride it ... never mind"s, and eventually decided that he'd try it 'next time.'

Colin and I ride the Monster for the first ~ and last ~ time

To his credit, this time he did not waver, even during the 50-minute line-up (an experience richly enhanced by the frickin' idiot who kept wrestling with his frickin' idiot girlfriend, crashing into me no less than FOUR times). During the ride itself, he was too terrified to even scream; he just clung to the safety bar, a look of absolute terror on his face the whole time. When we got off the ride, we bought the photo as proof that this time, he did it.

Next time, the Boomerang!

There is a stork circling overhead...

Nicole is in labour, and Small is expected to make an appearance very soon. Updates (and possibly pictures) to follow.

This afternoon at ten to five, Small arrived.

He is very calm and happy, as are his parents. The cats are not quite as calm or happy, but you can't please everyone.

Small, whose name is yet to be firmly decided, weighed 8 lbs 10 oz at birth ~ and hasn't stopped eating since!

Thanks for the supportive sentiments you've asked me to pass along to Nicole and Adam. They were much appreciated.

More photos (no doubt) in the coming days.

We're home...

...home to a rainy day, so we don't miss England so much, after all. Thanks, weather people!

...home to a lot of laundry, but a remarkably clean house, thanks to Dr. T., who so thoughtfully scoured the place top to bottom before he left to join us in the UK.

...home to some very thirsty plants.

...home without our cat, who's still away at my mother's summer camp for felines.

...home to our own beds! Not to mention our own kitchen, our own laundry machines (and don't even get me started on English washing machines), our own car, our own Internet set-up, etc., etc.

...home.

We were all sad to leave England, where we spent a wonderful, peaceful, familial month. Colin was particularly upset about leaving - while we were there, he picked up a British inflection and a love of tea; frankly I think he'd adapt faster than the rest of us if we were to relocate. He's born to be British, it seems. Maybe we'll send him to work with Bill Bryson.

We had a better time than I could have imagined - even if I did, in the end, fall off a horse! We were blessed to be there when Marley arrived, and Moor Wood and Milton Keynes really do feel like home, albeit without the aforementioned beds, kitchen, and so on. I will miss being horsey, and I will miss the World's Greatest In-Laws more than I can express.

Having said that, I am also relieved to feel really happy to be home - I've been walking around the house - MY house - with a huge grin on my face all morning. I'm looking forward to being urban again after a month of going country. I'm anxious to get reacquainted with the cat, and to see my parents and my friends - for whom I have chocolate, as added incentive to get together sooner rather than later. I have really enjoyed the culinary expertise of the WGMiL for the past month - as the added two pounds will attest - but I'm looking forward to preparing my own menus and cooking in my own kitchen. I know where everything is!

Oh, and since the vacation is officially over, I can get back into planning my fall courses. I've been predictably remiss in working on work for the past month, but I am genuinely excited about this term's courses, so hi-ho, hi-ho, here we go.

We're home.

**Crash**

...I stop typing to see if there's any wailing...

"wail, wail, wail, wail"

....I hold my breath to see if this wailing will stop on its own, as it usually does. Footsteps on the stairs...

"Mummy, Robert really hurt himself."

...I get to the bottom of the stairs, where I find a crumpled heap of Robert ~ naturally I am expecting something truly horrible, like his leg is sticking out at an unnatural angle, or the top of his head is missing. There appears to be no blood, however, nor are there any visible bones.

Robert sits up, moans a little...

I ask "what happened?", as we mothers are wont to do. In fact, I think it's probably a safe bet to say that "what happened" is the question most frequently asked by parents.

This is what happened: Robert bruised his shin because, while he and Colin were taking turns "catching" each other at the bottom of the stairs, Robert failed to catch Colin and bumped his leg.

Oy.

We are enjoying unseasonably warm weather up here in the hinterland these days. It's summer-warm and sunny, and I took advantage of this fair weather to get the boys out of the house yesterday afternoon.

Background: for the last few weeks, the boys have been experimenting with independence - they get off the school bus without a grown-up waiting at the stop, let themselves into the house on those days that I get home a little later than they do, and go to the park, two blocks away, without adult supervision.

So when yesterday proved to be yet another beautiful day, and the boys were both finished their homework with lots of daylight left, I sent them off to the park without me.

Half an hour later, the door slammed open and the two boys burst in, simultaneously screaming at me and each other. Colin got to me first:

Colin: "Robert wrote the F-word on the seesaw!!!!!"

Naturally, my reaction was:

"Robert!!!!" (for proper intonation, imagine Fred screaming "Wilma!!!!")

Robert: "I forgot how to spell the French word for 'seal*'!!!!"

Since we had already used up our daily quota of exclamation marks, I quietly explained that (a) it's not OK to write on someone else's property, even if it's painfully evident that plenty of other neighbourhood hoodlums don't agree; (b) using the F-word is an adult privilege and potentially offensive; and (c) I'm not quite that stupid.

*The French word for seal is 'phoque,' and is thus a source of great amusement to all of us anglophones at some stage in our elementary career. Ironically, the actual F-word is not particularly taboo in French, since bodily functions, which inform so much English cursing, are not nearly as horrific as taking the Lord's name in vain in French... but that's really another story altogether.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the 'writing' was done with a charred stick and was thus not actually permanent.

This afternoon, we said goodbye to my grandmother. I spoke at the service, and I wanted to share those words (more or less) here.

Less than five years ago, I wrote about Jane. This is what I said then:

My grandmother is 85. She has all her own teeth, and does not use Miss Clairol to keep her hair brown. She wears a hearing aid, but no glasses. She is definitely all there mentally. She has Parkinson’s, and is now confined to a wheelchair. She lives in a private room in a nursing home. When she needs to pee, she has to ring her bell for help. Geographically, I am her closest relative and I live more than an hour away by car.

Since then, things changed. In recent months, visiting with Jane was a fascinating and often amusing trip through her past. She told me about her life as a child, a teenager, a new bride, a mother, a mother with teenagers... she told me these things not as memories, but as moments that she was reliving. It would be easy to shake our heads and say “how sad”, that she was no longer “all there.” But listening to those moments from her long life, I learned that it was a good, happy life. The moments she relived were bright spots, and those are the kinds of moments we should all relive once in a while, to remind ourselves how blessed we are.

I am sad that we have to say goodbye. But I am so glad that we had her for as long as we did, and that we have so many bright spots of our own, thanks to her. I still remember just how orange that Jell-O salad was, and the way those almond cookies melted in my mouth. I remember Christmas mornings waking up in the bunk beds. I remember the ladies dancing across the mantelpiece. I remember the blue candy dish that never ran out of pink peppermints. We all have our special memories of Jane, which means that she will always be with us.
Thank you.

Yesterday I was reminded of a line from The Importance of Being Ernest. As previously noted, earlier this year I lost my grandmother, or more specifically, my step-grandmother, Jane. Last night I came home to find a letter from an Dublin solicitor regarding the loss of my paternal grandmother, my namesake*, Margaret McDonnell. I must be getting careless.

I have wonderful memories of Ireland. I remember looking into my Aunt Bernice's eyes for the first time when I was 19, and seeing my own eyes looking back. I remember eye-wateringly strong Irish coffee before bed on chilly winter nights. I remember hours of singing and laughing at Nick's, my grandparents' local. I remember taking the long way home to avoid the Garda road blocks!

It was in Ireland that Dr. T bought me a ring, and got down on one knee on a sidewalk and proposed.

When my father, Brian, died in 1998, I got a phone call from my uncle in Dublin, who let me know. That call, as per my father's request, was made after the funeral. I have not been back to Ireland since, and I often wonder, if I had been given the opportunity to be part of the family then, by which I mean, had I been invited to the funeral, would I have stayed in touch with my grandparents and my aunts and their families?

For my part, I hide behind the excuse that I am angry with my father. I feel that he deliberately excluded me from his life and death - which, given his track record, is not altogether surprising, but that doesn't make it right. Part of me is very hurt, though, that no one - not a single aunt, cousin, uncle, or grandparent - ever tried to get in touch with me.

I was sad to hear that Madge died, and sadder still that I heard it from a complete stranger. I remember her very fondly - she was tiny but full to overflowing with life and love and laughter.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting, when we meet again
____

*I'm not convinced that namesake is the right word here, as it implies she was named for me, which obviously is not the case. The closest "right" word I can think of is eponym, but I think that's usually reserved for things, not people. Anyone have a better word?

Transcript of a conversation in our kitchen, yesterday afternoon:

Robert: Daddy has a lot of jobs. He has Scrabble, and singing in the choir, and the computer stuff*. That's three jobs! Mummy has just one job; she's a teacher.

Colin: Well, she's our mother. That's a job.

Robert: Then Daddy has four, 'cause he's our dad... Mummy, if you wanted to do more stuff, that would be OK.

*the "computer stuff" is his actual job

Last night Robert, wearing the red-and-blue glasses that came with a recent Bugs magazine, walked into the kitchen and informed that I was "now" 3D.

Phew.

Some of you may recall that my grandmother passed away this past January. Because she died in the winter, her casket was stored in a crypt to await burial in the spring. The interment took place last Monday.

More or less.

My grandmother's grave is next to my grandfather's, naturally. In fact, her name and date of birth were carved into the stone in 1993, when my grandfather died. I realize this is standard practice, but it still seems a little creepy to me to have your gravestone, four numbers shy of completion, sitting there, waiting for you for 15 years. But I digress.

When my grandfather died, it was summertime, and the funeral included the interment. The family gathered at the graveside, and watched as the casket was lowered into the ground. So although there was a four-and-a-half-month interval this time, we were expecting the interment to be pretty much the same thing - casket gets lowered into the ground. In-terre.

So my sister and I arrive at the cemetery - much earlier than anyone else, despite my dad's conviction that we would be late - and settle in to wait for my parents and aunt and uncle, not to mention the guest of honour. I decide that I'll visit the site, just to have a quiet moment alone with my grandfather before the ceremony. Now, the last time I was at the grave, I have to admit, was 1993. I was confident I would find it, though, since I clearly remembered standing in front of the grave, looking out onto the lake, with a tree swaying in the gentle breeze.

Of course, I conveniently forgot that the entire cemetery is basically lakeviews with gently swaying trees. (It's very lovely, really.)

Thankfully, at the far end of the cemetery, there are two men, one of whom is clearly the operator of a small earthmover, which is parked nearby. I walk over and tell them I am there for my grandmother's burial, and could they help my find her grave. The earthmover guy physically turns me and points to a green box a few rows over, and says "that's her over there."

See? I knew I could find it.

So I get to the grave, with the new numbers freshly carved into the stone, and find a small open box, plywood covered with astroturf, positioned directly over my grandmother's final resting place. What I do not find is a big hole. Nor is there a mound of earth.

I consider whether it's possible that the green box is like a tiger trap...

As I am walking back to my sister's car to continue waiting for the rest of the family, the earthmover guy drives past, then stops, dismounts, and retrieves an old bouquet from another grave. As he walks past me, he winks and says "I need a monkey."

Unfamiliar with etiquette in this situation, I am speechless. Then he explains that if he had a monkey, he could train it to retrieve the old flowers. Classy.

Ok, so everyone else arrives, including the pallbearers, the casket, the minister and the funeral director. We all make our way over to the grave, where there is still no big, traditional, you've-seen-it-in-all-the-movies hole. I can see my dad going through the same mental process - isn't there supposed to be a hole? In-terre?

Anyway, the pallbearers bring the casket from the hearse and place it on the green box, which, as it turns out, is not a tiger trap, but rather a platform. The minister does his usual schtick, then the funeral director pulls a flask from his breast pocket. This was not as promising as it sounds - the flask is filled with sand, which he pours on the casket to symbolize the whole dust-to-dust thing. Amens are said, the minister shakes everyone's hand...

...and we're apparently done.

Except no one's in the terre.

So my dad beckons the funeral director over and asks the obvious question - isn't there supposed to be a hole and a lowering into said hole, etc., etc.?

Which is when we all learn two new terms: the funeral director explains that this is what they [presumably "in the business"] call a "dry set." Apparently this is a growing trend; because the ground is frequently unstable, there is a risk of the sides of the grave collapsing [there's a lovely image] and posing a risk to the pallbearers [again, lovely image - pallbearers, arms pinwheeling, sliding in with the casket]. Instead, more and more cemeteries have a graveside "dry set" interment, and after the family and funeral party leaves, the "cemeterians will take care of her." Cemetarian, presumably, is a fancy word for monkey-lovin' earthmover guy.

So, as my dad observed, we walked away, leaving her in the casket, still on the green box, in the bright sunshine. Not in the terre.

Fortunately, my sister returned later that afternoon, and confirmed that my grandmother had clearly been interred, for real.

All of which is to say, perhaps cremation is a better option?

Please note, spelling has been preserved to reflect the sheer genius of my offspring.

What you need:
two bowls
some cat food
a sink
liter
a liter box
a colar
some tuna

When yor cat does something bad, give it an agry tone. When it does the opisote, pet it and/or give it some tuna or fish. Let it go out when it please. It will come back. When one of the bowls is emty, fill it up with either water or food. When the liter box no longer has liter, throw the poo out.

Way back in June we made the momentous decision to have our basement finished. A few years ago, the world's greatest mother-in-law helped me turn the basement from this:

to this:

...which was fine, for a while. But Robert has asthma, so a dusty, damp basement is not ideal. Also, we are four in the house, with one bathroom, so a second bathroom is a nice addition - not to mention that the first bathroom desperately needs work, but with four of us in the house, having no bathroom is a truly bad idea.

So we sat down with our contractor, who has already done our kitchen and backyard projects, and came up with a new basement: second bathroom, including a fancy shower; a bright, clean laundry room; lots of storage space, built around the furnace and water heater, thus hiding those industrial thingies aways; a new front door, with a closet; heating and lighting; and loads of other little luxurious details.

Check out the end result on my flickr page.

...for Colin's birthday party. More angles available on flickr.

After a month of trudging down to the basement to answer every call of nature, we finally have running water and a fully-installed toilet in the upstairs bathroom. This coming week, the vanity cabinets should be installed, after which the granite counter goes in and we're done (save for the painting etc., but we're not expecting that to take us long).

Progress!

We have also managed to reset all the clocks, now that we've fallen back, and appreciated the extra hour of sleep, if not the inexorable march of time, even with a step back. It's officially fall, almost winter - our snow tires are on, the heat is on, even our winter duvet is on...

Progress...

We celebrated Robert's ninth birthday yesterday (a week and a half late, due to various other engagements), and as I write this, Dr. T is taking Colin shopping for his own deodorant and shower soap. On Friday, he had an interview at Royal West Academy, because he's starting high school next September. This morning, he got out of bed and made himself a fried egg.

Progress.
Sigh.

I am, despite what the preceding may have implied, inclined to count my blessings:

- We've "struggled" with that long walk to the downstairs toilet because we're lucky enough to live in a beautiful house and can afford to indulge in luxuries like finished basements and second bathrooms.

- We spent ages resetting clocks because our house is filled with appliances and electronics that make our home life easy and entertaining - and in fact it didn't take all that long, since so many of our devices now reset themselves automatically.

- We have a wonderful new car, which is great, and we were astute enough to get our tires relatively early, thus avoiding the rush that will no doubt occur on December 14th (the day before Quebecers are required by law to have their winter tires installed). Even better, we live in a city with a pretty good, relatively cheap public transport system, which means we can be a one-car family that rarely uses its car.

- We have an efficient heating system that is relatively 'green' and keeps us cozy all winter, and we're spoiled enough to have seasonal bedding!

- We have two amazing sons, who are becoming increasingly interesting people, with very defined and distinct interests, personalities, styles and temperaments. They're doing well in school, which they both love, and we're immensely proud of them.

So yes, we like progress.

What do you think of when someone mentions yoga? Calm, serene, meditative stretchy bendiness? That's what I think of, certainly.

Now, I am aware that there are other forms of yoga involving sweating and speed, but having never tried these forms I feel completely qualified to dismiss these as horribly misguided distortions of the art.

But that is neither here nor there...

I bring up yoga because it seems to me unlikely that one can sustain a yoga-related injury. What could happen? I suppose you could get stuck in a particularly interesting position, or maybe develop an incense headache, but really, it's slow and calm and generally non-threatening.

Yet somehow, Colin managed to sustain a series of gouges on his face, and inflict some pretty significant damage on his glasses, through yoga.

Last weekend, my friend Erin came over to go sledding with us, after which we went back to my place. I went off to the kitchen to make some well-deserved hot chocolate, and left Erin to be entertained by the boys.

So Colin got up on a chair in the hallway, to show Erin how well he can do the lotus position - that's the one where you sit and cross your legs over each other, or, as my pre-PC elementary school phys. ed. teacher would say, "Indian style." To further impress Erin, Colin wove his arms through his legs - and pitched face-first off the chair and onto the wooden floor.

At which point Robert yelled at Erin "Why didn't you catch him?!"

Erin, who does not any insane children of her own, took this quite seriously, and was very apologetic to Robert, Colin and me about failing to prevent this accident, which clearly was not her fault at all.

I was able to reassure her a few days later, when I told her about taking the boys to the hairdresser the next day - where Robert yelled at his hairdresser from start to finish: "why are you washing my hair?! Why are you throwing ice on my head?! [cold water] Why are you pouring lava on my head?! [she turned the warm water up] What is this towel for?!" And that was just while getting his hair washed.

So, in the end, Colin's fine - his face has already healed, and we convinced a very nice lady at the optometrist's shop to bend his frames back into shape - and Robert is in training to be George Costanza's mother.

My lovely friend Erin (or, as Dr. T calls her, my hot supermodel friend Erin) recently interviewed Colin and Robert for her article on tobogganing - check it out!!

In the photo, by the way, Erin is wearing a hat that I made. The hat did not take as long to make as the children.

Next week is International Women's Week. I wrote the following for inclusion in our campus union newsletter, in response to a call for articles on inspiring women:

Many years ago, when I was a student here at Vanier, I wrote an item for the school newspaper, The Phoenix, about REAL Women. For those who may not recognize the group, REAL Women (Realistic, Equal, Active, for Life) is an “alternative” women’s group that primarily champions women’s right to be stay-at-home mothers – a noble cause, certainly, but at the time I was writing, the group’s language was a lot more controversial, and their message included condemnation of women who chose to work, pursue higher education and challenging careers, or engage in oral sex, among other grievous sins.

My response then, as it is now, is that women like my mother – who, at the tender age of 23 found herself a single parent, in a country an ocean away from her family – are the real women that inspire me. My mother worked full-time to support me, and even after she met and married my step-father, she continued to work, because she loved her job (she retired more than a little reluctantly a few years ago). She was a driving force in my education, and encourages my sister and me to pursue our careers with all our passion. Of course she loves our husbands and her grandchildren, but she has never suggested – because it would never occur to her – that we’re doing any disservice to our families by exploring life outside the domestic sphere.

I have learned in recent years that my mother’s extraordinarily progressive philosophy is genetic. My grandmother, born shortly after the First World War, left school at 14 to earn a living and help support her family, which she did for eleven years before she married my grandfather. After her six children were all in school, she went back, finished high school, and got her teacher’s license, and taught elementary school until she retired at 63, the mandatory age at the time. She’s still going strong at 87, living on her own, playing competitive bridge and taking the occasional cruise around the Mediterranean.

Shortly after they were married, my grandfather said to my grandmother “Mary, our family has always voted Labour, and now that you’re in the family, you will too.” My grandmother’s reply? “Edward, women like Emmeline Pankhurst didn’t starve themselves and chain themselves to railings so you could have two votes.” She never did vote Labour, either.

There are so many inspirational women around the world, making changes and leading extraordinary lives – but I am most inspired by, and most thankful for, my Mum and my Gran.

Happy International Women's Week.

We're off to the UK on Tuesday evening, and I am in my traditional just-about-to-pack-but-not-yet phase, in which the simple act of getting dressed becomes terribly complicated because I might want to pack that t-shirt, so I can't wear it now.

This situation is newly exacerbated by Colin, who has been asking, every day for at least two weeks, "should we start packing today?"

Further complicating matters is the fact that the UK is apparently experiencing some weird heat wave, which is anomalous with the past three summers we've spent there, which have been cold and frequently damp. Obviously, I have to pack for the hot, dry weather that seems to be happening, but based on previous experience, I also have to pack for cold, damp weather.

In past years, I have tried to be minimalist in my packing, with the strategy that a quick trip to one of the myriad charity shops will fully supplement my wardrobe for the duration of my stay, at the end of which everything can be regifted to the very same shop. This is, of course, a brilliant plan, but in actual execution has proved to be seriously flawed, primarily because the selection of clothing at the charity shops is, naturally, limited and frequently amusing/terrifying. So the result of the carefully-laid plan is that I end up spending a month in the same pair of jeans and increasingly tattered t-shirt, insisting that we go shopping again, like some kind of deranged treasure hunter who believes that this next expedition will be the lucky one.

So this year, in an effort to appear slightly less shopping-mad, I am trying to pack as if there are no charity shops, or Marks & Spencer, or Clarks, or BHS, or woolen mills, and so on, so that our visit can be about reconnecting with family and celebrating the arrival of Layla, the newest member of the family, rather than about me channeling Becky Bloomwood.

One might think that since there are three of us travelling, and we're each entitled to two checked bags, that the obvious solution is to get six suitcases and cram them full of everything we own; however, once packed, the six suitcases would then have to be transported to the airport in one car, then retrieved by one adult at the baggage carousel at Heathrow, manipulated onto a coach, and then stuffed into an even smaller car for the final leg of the journey - not to mention the inconvenience of having six suitcases in active use in a relatively small house for four weeks.

Mind you, my in-laws are relatively laid back, and if the weather really is hot and dry, maybe the solution is clear - I have to convince them of the benefits of life au naturel.

Then all I'd need to pack is sunscreen :)

This summer, we are once again in the idyllic Cotswolds, reconnecting with the UK branch of the family. As always, Dr. T can only be with us for one week out of the four that we'll be here, but the boys and I are well taken care of by his side of the clan.

As the most recent member of the family, Layla, arrived about four weeks ago, we were expecting a rather relaxed trip, what with the whole "just gave birth" thing. However, in the week that we've been here, we've already:

- attended a medieval festival in Tewkesbury, complete with battle reenactment
- made our annual pilgrimage to Bournton-on-the-Water's model village
- eaten at Jamie Oliver's Italian restaurant in Oxford
- toured the Corinium museum in Cirencester

Tomorrow, we're off to Raglan Castle in Wales, and on Friday, the boys and I will take the train to Glasgow to spend a few days with my grandmother. The rest of the month will be filled with trips to Milton Keynes, London and Paris.

But the highlight of this summer, as it has been for the last two, is the scenery right outside the front door of the house*.

Granted, being here has made me appreciate having kids who are no longer infants or toddlers, not to mention having my own bed, in my own bedroom, but the bottom line is that I lucked out in the in-law department. My sister-in-law is someone with whom I have a great connection - not surprising, really, given that her brother is Dr. T and her mother is TWGMIL (tm), but wonderful, nonetheless.

I had a longer post planned, and partly written, but I goofed and inadvertently shut down the computer, after which there was supper, and dessert, and wine, and tea, and, and, and... so I'm posting mainly for the benefit of Dana ;) But there will be more, certainly - in fact, Colin now has his own camera, so there are two of us recording it all for posterity.

*There are loads more photos from our first week on my flickr page.

A friend recently contacted me, and a few other friends who are also parents, and asked for our input - she has a friend who has a one-year-old child, and who is struggling with the decision to have another, or not, and when. After I sent in my two-cents, it occurred to me that I could share this fiddling small change with the rest of you.

I realize none of you actually asked, but until you DO start suggesting topics*, this is what happens.

So, here's what I sent to my friend - and I'll forward any insight from the comments, should any be forthcoming:

I have two boys, 25 months apart, and although sometimes we sit back and wonder what the heck we were thinking, the benefits outweigh the hard work.

I am the oldest in our family, and my sister came along when I was seven - my brother another six years after that. So when I left home for college, my mother still had a pre-schooler! From our perspective as kids, we felt like we didn't really know each other. My sister and I are friends now, but that took some doing as adults. My brother is practically a stranger. From our parents' perspective, it must have seemed like an endless cycle - just when you finally get one through toddlerhood/childhood/adolescence, here comes another one, and another after that.

When Dr. T and I decided to have kids, we specifically decided on plural, and I said I wanted them to be close together. We actually aimed for something like "Irish twins" (there was a non-starter conception between the two boys).

Sometimes our house is non-stop chaos, but there are plenty of reasons I'm glad we ended up with our boys - they are close enough in age that when one has a friend over, the other can join in without it being an "imposition"; they have each other, not just at home but at school and at extra-curricular events; they share games, toys, books, jokes, bedtime, homework routines, and so on... When they were little, it was hard work sometimes; unlike my parents, though, when we were finished with diapers we were really finished with them. Chicken pox was a one-time occurrence at our house.

Now that they're older, they're developing their own interests, but they still spend most of their spare time together, even if it's not always daisy chains and singing ;)

Colin started high school this week, so for the first time EVER they are in school at different places, taking different buses at different times - and for the first time I am actually worried about them getting to and from school, because they don't have each other. Of course, my worries are pretty much groundless, but hey, mums gotta worry!

So, to summarize - two is good, close is good. (wow, that was waaay shorter than the first part)

*which is a neat idea - reader-generated topics! I may regret this, but feel free to send me something to write about. If you ask nicely, I'll even try to avoid ending my sentences with prepositions, 'cause I know they freak some people out.

Many years ago, before our kitchen was "done," we had no cupboard space, and I used the top of the fridge as a makeshift storage area. I kept two or three baskets on the fridge, filled with bags and boxes of spices, lentils, noodles, and the like.

One fine summer afternoon, the back door was open to allow the sun and fresh air to come in - and the wildlife, apparently. My friend and I walked into the kitchen to discover a squirrel perched on top of the fridge, reaching for a bag of walnuts.

He looked at me. I looked at him. I said "those are not yours. Put that down and move along."

And he did... my friend promptly dubbed me "Reasons with Squirrels" (a la 'Dances with Wolves').

Now I may have to trade that title in for 'Cat Whisperer.'

About a month ago, the Domestic Goddess rescued three kittens and their mother from under her neighbour's porch, and brought them to the Animal Health department at the college where we both work. The Animal Health people cleaned up the kittens and spayed the mother, then DG took the kittens to her mother's apartment as a temporary home.

The mother, according to the Animal Health experts, was feral and the best thing to do was to release her back into her territory, i.e., the neighbour's porch, since she'd never be tame enough to adapt to living as a pet. I offered to take her home and house her in our downstairs bathroom for a couple of days while she recuperated from the surgery.

So, hissing and spitting and yowling, she spent the first night in our bathroom. The next day, I found her curled up in the sink, and although she hissed at me, she didn't make any aggressive moves. I fed her, and left her alone. Two days later there was still some hissing, but there was also this:

Perhaps not so feral, after all?

Within days, I was leaving the bathroom door open and she was rubbing against my legs when I arrived with food. The next step was to open the laundry room door so she'd have access to the whole basement - and she quickly discovered the cat-friendly access to the large storage closet, and took up residence on one of our suitcases.

She's been here almost a month now, and we've gone from hissing and growling to purring and kneading. She's keenly aware that there's another cat in the house (although Heidi is either completely oblivious or completely secure in her position as Number One cat), so she's been very cautious about exploring upstairs, but I think it's safe to say that it's only a matter of time before she's sitting on Colin's homework and demanding water from Dr. T at 3 a.m.

Her name is Mehitabel.