I should never bake when I'm pre-menstrual.

It's official; I'm ruining my son's daycare birthday party. My boring old cupcake in ice cream cone idea that is supposed to be as simple as 1-2-3 so that I can study study study has gone horribly wrong wrong wrong.

Tonight I went from this:

to this:

Just for reference, they are supposed to look somewhat like this:

I am a terrible terrible terrible mother.
How is it that I can bake bread from scratch but I can't cook from a powdered cake mix box? I filled those suckers too high, that's why. I wanted bountiful heaps of chocolate fudge cake but instead received melted cups of mush.
What a waste of food.

Why?

Why?

WHY do I find this so bloody important?!?!?!!?!

WHY??????!!!!!!!!

Edit: This is what I ended up salvaging...

Now I just hope I don't drop them on the way there.

There's a song by Johnny Cash (I'm not quite sure which one it is) where he sings about trains. There is a train whistle throughout the song and the lyrics mention stations, trains, tracks and so on. Everytime we play something on the stereo, Franklin asks us to, "play Johnny Cash, the TRAIN SONG!"

So we oblige, of course.

Then we watch him prance (yes, it is a prance, there is no other way to describe it) around the room and yell "WHOOO WHOOOOOO" at the relevant sections.

There is a song by the Beatles called "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds". In this song, which I'm sure most of you are familiar with, there is mention of a train. Amongst the tangerine trees and kaleidoscope eyes, Franklin was able to identify the small mention of a train in a station and now, whenever we are in the car, he asks us to "play Lucy'n sky with diamos with the TRAIN STATION!"

So, of course, we oblige.

For the rest of the song he is quiet, listening with concentration to hear that one particular verse.

One of my co-workers also has a fascination with trains. If you were to ask her why she would talk about their shape, the smoothness of the ride, the way you could relax and walk around...

I remember the trains my friend and I took while travelling and the times we had on them - accidentally travelling to Germany when we should have gone to Belgium (and realizing this at the beginning of the trip and having no way to turn around), stopping for hours on end while making our way through Northern Greece (apparently there are a lot of cows in Greece who like to hang around train tracks), trying to make deals through Serbia and ending up in a scary situation with a toothless old train conductor who had horrible kissing skills...

Trains.

Franklin has never really been on a train. He's been on the subway, various small ride-along trains, and a heritage museum electric - all after we discovered his love of trains. However, he hasn't experienced the relaxed method of travel or the incredible landscape/graffiti that train transportation can show you.

Where does this train obsession come from?
Do all toddlers latch on to a concept or object and run with it like Franklin has?
Mom, did I do this in some way as well?

Don't get me wrong, I understand how wonderful this is. It is very easy to entertain him or buy gifts. We certainly don't have to wonder if we take him to see the model train show, whether or not he'll have a mindblowing time. I'm just wondering whom we're raising here, a normal kid or a future transportation engineer.

via Liminal Musings

1. Go into your archive.

2. Find your 23rd post (or closest to).

3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).

4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

One third of government jobs are going to be cut over a three year period here in Victoria. BC's largest employer is the government. That will be over 11,300 jobs (according to the estimate in the paper this morning).


Bread

I have discovered a passion. I love baking bread. I baked raisin bread last night and it was so much fun. Seriously, it was so much fun to be studying at two in the morning while waiting for the bread to rise. Why do I find this so entertaining? I'm not sure. It's a combination of the quiet house, the kneading of the bread, the smell, the productivity of doing two things at once... probably all of those things with a dab of childhood memory thrown into the mix.

Whatever the case, we ate fresh raisin bread this morning.
It was good.
It would have been magnificently warm and fresh at four in the morning but I couldn't justify waking Franklin and D up to taste it quite then.

As well, I am sorry to say that the dork that I am took photos of the bread. Yes, I have picture of me hovering over fresh bread at four in the morning. I get a little odd during this time and seemed to be on a little yeast-induced high or something.
I wasn't able to load them onto flickr though as our internet is currently malfunctioning due to my incessant need to rearrange the entire house creating a need for longer cable cords.

I will load them next to this post later this evening. I'm sure you are all giddy in anticipation.
Lordy, this website freaks me out sometimes.


Kisses

How is it that no matter how hard you stub your toe or smash your finger, that little kiss - all slobbery and wet and tender - makes the pain slide away?

Sometimes I have to sit back and really question just who is raising whom in this house.

Earlier this morning, Franklin had a play date at a friend's house. I always feel so good after being over there. Hi mother and have similar parenting views (and skills - being we don't have a clue) and it is always nice to talk to someone who doesn't try to compare their child to yours on a constant basis.

Unfortunately, Franklin has a great time over there as well and although I too have a hard time leaving, I don't tend to cry big rolling tears - at least not on the outside.

On the way home, he was the perfect definition of "melancholy". He's wasn't crying, but he was sad - S. A. D. sad. The occasional tear would roll amongst heavy sighs and every once and awhile there was a soft whisper of "M...bulldozer...M...bulldozer...M..."

It was quite funny. He also wanted to be cuddled and although I knew in my head that much of it was a highly dramatic vaudeville act, I indulged.

We sat in the sun by the patio and rocked back and forth while he sighed, whimpered and repeated his friend's name over and over again.

Melodrama. It's just one more gift I've given him.

I love fall. I love love love love it.

It is so incredibly nice outside. Everything smells so wonderful, there are pumpkins in everyone's garden (except mine) and the trees are turning beautiful shades of yellow and orange.

Speaking of my garden, what a source of learning and frustration - oy yoy yoy.
Gardening in a major thoroughfare where extremely rambunctious children are apt to play with their balls and bikes and random people decide to plant their leftover Easter Lilies, is not easy. Every day I've come to expect another plant awaiting rescue. The other week the entire garden was mown down and baring clinging to it's roots because my soaker hose had been ripped out of position. Yesterday someone's hop ball was laying smack dab on top of my pumpkin plant.

I've lost the following (due to these urban hazards):

- one of two pumpkin plants (the other is hanging on for dear life)
- one of two sunflowers
(planted there by who the hell knows because I certainly wouldn't have put them where they are - in the shade - but I still like them)
- about four or five lima bean stalks
- a lilac bush
- countless marigolds
- an entire row of spinach
- about a foot of arugula
- one ridiculously bown and yellow Easter Lily
(when is it okay to pull that out, when it's completely brown?)

The thing is that I told everyone that they didn't have to be careful around the garden. I told the kids that they could walk in the space and look at the growing vegetables. I told the neighbours that if they had anything to plant, they were welcome to it. So, in essence, I am reaping what I sowed - well, I suppose that and a little more and a whole lot less.

argh.
My kingdom for a community garden plot.

I've always known that Franklin has a special place in his heart for vehicles. Some kids love horses, some kids love their puppy, my child loves inanimate objects with wheels of any kind.

The other day, we were watching Babar (a childhood favorite of mine) and the elephant sailboat went down in the ocean. The family was stranded in the water only to be rescued by a band of scurvy looking fish pirates. Things certainly looked grim for the king but Franklin didn't give a rat's ass. He was too concerned with the fate of the boat.

Johniford, his fish, is dead
- whatever, man.
Thomas the Train gets muddy in Go Train Go
- IS THERE REALLY A GOD?!?

Actually, all joking aside, he was really upset about the sailboat.
Usually a deep breath would be all that is required to calm him down but he kept repeating over and over again that the sailboat was gone and that he needed to bring back the sailboat. I got worried. It wasn't like him to get so upset.

After turning off the television we managed to eke out a conversation between alternate deep breaths and desperate sobs - calming down and getting excited all over again at the mere mention of a boat, water or the colour yellow.

The final solution was to take out the easel and draw a picture of the sailboat in order to "bring it back and remember it" (truly, these were his words). I hastily drew (under Franklin's direction) my best representation of the boat complete with sail, Zephyr, Babar and company all merrily aboard. Then, after giving Franklin the yellow marker, I watched him colour that big sail in the most desperate way imaginable. It was fascinating - and a little scary.

I could tell he felt better about it afterwards and we both went on to paint blue sparkly water and silver sparkly stars all over the page.

I remember that documentary I watched about the children of Beslan and how so many of them were using art to deal with their emotions. One little girl would repeatedly draw a picture of the terrorists, rip up it up and burn it in a small dish. She said that she wished she could do more to make the men in her drawing suffer but every time she watched the paper burn she felt a little better for awhile.

I don't know where I'm going with this.
I'm not trying to make a connection with Franklin's little cartoon drama and the massacre of beautiful children in Russia. I suppose I'm just realizing how powerful art can be to a child who doesn't have the ability to understand such strong emotions.

Franklin's yellow sailboat is hanging in his room now.
I think it will be a picture I will keep forever.

Sometimes I either over-estimate Franklin's comprehension or just talk without thinking. Well, perhaps I could rephrase that and say, "Sometimes I talk without thinking or frankly, without comprehension" and leave the kid out of it altogether.

I blame the following story on Franklin's insistent questions:
What is "yearning"?
What is an "author"?
What is "poisonous"?

I also feel that we can blame Beatrix Potter and that simpleton, Jemima Puddle-duck.

Last weekend, while going through a collection of Peter Rabbit favorites, I caught myself explaining to my almost-3-but-not-quite son of mine that the presence of foxgloves in a story can be symbolic foreshadowing of danger. The character (Jemina Puddle-duck) could be in danger or there could be a dangerous character nearby (the soft-spoken, gentlemanly fox), as the flower is highly poisonous.

I could hear D's eye's rolling from the next room.

Of course, all this scholarly crap just lead to a set of questions that could, upon my measured response, either instill great fear or healthy respect of nature and literature collectively. Actually, I believe I quite successfully fought back the instinct to scare the be-jesus out of him. My fearless plant taster now promises to check with me (or another adult) before he sticks anything in his mouth - and that includes the parsley.

To be sure, it's a beautiful book. However, I neglected to consider the fact that I DON"T READ JAPANESE.
I've been scouring the net for translator sites but going symbol by symbol is too ridiculous.

It's a book on how to incorporate your child's art into various crafts like bags, aprons, slippers, dishes, bird houses, wasabi carriers...
Of course, I knew it was Japanese when I got it, but I thought I could get the idea of what the instructions were from looking at the drawings and photographs.

I'm so cocky.

I did get some ideas for embroidery transfers. It's just that I have no clue how some of the other ideas are done. Also, I think there are some crafting supplies in Japan that you can't find in Canada, or at least, not on the island. For instance, did you know there is no place in Victoria that sells or even understands what gocco printing is?
If we lived in Toronto, there would be no problem.
However, in Victoria they will just direct me to the silk screening supplies.

There is this one idea, decorating plates from a drawing, that uses something with the drawn objects in water as a crucial step...
Can anyone give me a clue? The plates seem to be fully functional so they must be made to be food safe somehow.

Regardless, it's a marvelous book with amazing ideas and beautiful photographs.

I'll figure it out.
I usually muddle through somehow.
It's in my nature to muddle.

There's a blog (and a book) that I read (and have read) called City Comforts. I don't go there often - in fact, I have to admit with my life as busy as it is right now I don't visit many blogs very often. However, this afternoon I dropped by and read a bit.

This is what I missed:
"Oh for a measured conservative not constantly trying-on costumes."
I watch local governments quite a bit. I am particularly interested in how federal and provincial governments dance with/around/on top of/underneath local government. I watch George Bush in this respect as well.
It's all quite interesting (in a removed and cold sort of way); this New Orleans "tango".


Blog-roll Issues:

I really need to add more representative blogs to my blog-roll. Contrary to my earlier post, it is missing about 50% of the blogs that I read and includes about 75% that I don't.
Actually, I think I may just take it down all together. I was telling a friend of mine that I'm too much of a guilt ridden Catholic girl who-just-wants-everyone-to-like-her, to have a blog-roll. There are people I haven't read in months over there. I think about clicking the link, I really do, but I never get to it. There always too many other things to look at when I have the precious spare time to sit down at the computer for pleasure.

I was going to say there are also people over there who's blogs annoy the crap out of me, but that would be rude because everyone who reads this is reading with themselves in mind (or perhaps I'm the only self-absorbed who does this...) and I could potentially get a lot of people wondering if they annoy me and then get angry that I would think such a preposterously insane thing, and then just not care... that, or think I'm a bitch for saying such an annoying thing in the first place.

... I was going to say that....

And what about the people you know, but haven't linked to - are you expected to link to everyone you know who writes a weblog? Are you rude to not do so?
On that note, should you ask for permission before you post a link - especially if it's a personal, family orientated blog?
What's the etiquette on those emails requesting that you link to their blog and why do I find many of those so uncomfortably brazen?

Anyway....

While I take my gigantic foot out of my mouth...
Anyone read the news over in Bosnia lately?

My back is killing me.
I slept with Franklin last night and man, I'm glad we've bought him a new mattress because even though the sleeper in the middle has a nice, cozy dip to burrow into, the unlucky dork that gets squeezed along the edge is in trouble.
OUCH.

- or maybe I'm just old.

I have no idea what happened last night. I went to bed exhausted and woke up (Lord knows when) to the sound of Franklin talking very calmly, but loudly. When I got to his room, he was having an animated conversation with his lamp. He then turned to me and said, "Come on in, Mom" and patted his bed.

It was all very Twin Peaks.

I think I may have mumbled something about being really tired and how I was going to fall asleep right away so I wouldn't be able to talk. I wonder if he was even awake at the time though because I got one sleepy kiss from him before he plopped right down into a deep sleep himself.

The child, he is odd.
The apple, it does not fall far.

D remembers quite clearly when he was a child that he was most comfortable in his parent's bed. It wasn't that he was scared of sleeping alone, but that he had the most comfortable sleeps inbetween his mother and father. He seems pretty sensitive to this memory - even now.
If Franklin wants us to sleep with one of us, or in our bed, there is no objection from D.

It's funny.
It's funny how the trials we go through as children can have such an affect on us as parents. D and I project so much of our experiences on Franklin.

I remember getting so worked up as a child that I thought I was going to explode inside. It was hard for me to keep it all in but I thought I was being "a good girl" by not communicating how I felt about things. I also used to feel like I couldn't do anything right.
Now, in hindsight, I see that I was more frustrated with not doing everything perfectly. To tell you the truth, although I understand that I can't do everything perfectly, I am still frustrated that I can't do the things I choose to do perfectly, perfectly.

Now, as a Mother, when I watch Franklin get frustrated and upset, I am immediately transported to those frustrating times and I want to make everything okay. I want to solve the problem, I want to fix his puzzle, and I want to put the trains back on the rails. I want everything to be perfect. I want to show him how to draw a boat, a cloud, and a flower.

I have to remember that failing is a good thing and that not doing something perfectly on the first try, teaches him (me) how to do so many more things than that one task. It's a hard lesson and these days it feels like we are going through it together.

This is me.
I'm not sure where it is. It must be Vanderhoof - although perhaps it is Quebec City. The "totally hip" headband and whacked out tongue are both making it quite difficult to figure out exactly how old I am in the photograph. I'm starting to wonder if that curse my Mother bestowed upon me in my teens, ("I hope to GOD you have a child, JUST LIKE YOU!") had some real staying power because Franklin makes this face all the time.

Where am I in this photo, Mother?
(Between you and me, internet, I have a feeling even my Mother will need to make an approximate guess. This is a hazard of having 5 children - 5 crazy children at that.)

Anyway, the point is that Franklin has some pretty hefty ballet genes to draw from.
Don't you agree?

What style!
What grace!
What joie de vivre!

I predict that all future dance lessons with Franklin will be much like this photo and I'm thinking of charging money for copies of the video footage.

I should never be allowed to go near fish. Some people aren't good with plants, others aren't good with kids, and I'm not good with fish.

It was only with Herculean effort did I manage to sum up the courage to net that fish and put him in another bowl in order to deal with the sludge that had accumulated in the tank. I only did this because D is golfing and as we've already lost one fish, Johniford*, to who knows what, exhaustion most likely**, I wanted to give the remaining fish, Quack, a happy place to roam.

*Franklin named both fish. He actually put a lot of thought into Johniford's name. Quack was most likely named this because this was what Franklin predominately said around the time that we got him.

**Johniford, being the second child, would tend to try and stand out in the crowd. He did this by eating too much food and thus caused his stomach to take on too much air. As a result, his bottom side would become a pocket of air and he'd float upside down. It took a lot of effort to swim this way (obviously) and the only way to right him up again was to feed him frozen peas (I have no idea why).

Nevertheless, I think I've killed Quack. He's flip flopping around the tank right now and he's not looking good.

However, the tank looks wonderful.

I can't handle dying fish. I wish I could be anywhere else but here right now.
I can't get the stupid filter going either.

When I was in boarding school I had a fish tank. I cleaned it out with dish detergent one day and neglected to rinse it properly. The tank had soapsuds covering the water for about two weeks and all my fish were pooping on a constant basis. I didn't loose any that time though. I don't remember if I did, anyway. I may have blocked it out.

I'm blogging because I'm too scared to turn around and see if Quack's okay.
I know, I'm such a wimp.

Okay, I'll look.

HE'S RIGHT SIDE UP!!!!

I gotta go get that filter working....

But I came to work today.

Why? Why would I subject my co-workers to this head full of pain, so painful in fact that I actually thought of taking a knife to my skull to relieve the pressure yesterday?

I had class today.
I am such a keener.

What did I learn in class today? - the anthropomorphic destruction of Easter Island.
I feel great - in comparison.

Speaking of comparisons, something clicked while I was sick this week.
Perhaps it was the sickness, perhaps it was the masochistic torture of visiting every single website with any mention of Hurricane Katrina - most especially those with photos.

Whatever the case, I sat through an entire documentary on the children of the Beslan massacre the other night. I was crying, I was shaking, and I was horrified. Yet, I sat there and watched. I thought about turning the channel but for some odd reason, I thought it would be disrespectful. Don't ask me why. I really think I have been quite delusional throughout this whole sickness and it has caused me to be extra sappy. I obviously feel like I'm the centre of the universe if I think the survivors of Beslan care whether or not I'm watching their journey of healing.

Yesterday afternoon, D brought Franklin home form daycare, fed him, bathed him and put him to bed. Then he went to his squash game, came home and made lunch for the next day. Franklin had such a good time and I was able to sleep the entire afternoon, evening and night. The only disruption was when Franklin came into my bed once and while and asked me to "hold this train" or "how's your bug, Mum?"

The amount I love I felt, but was too weak and in too much pain to express, for D that afternoon was tremendous. I know I would (and should) normally expect this from him and I know I would (and should) normally do the same for him, but it was how he took care of everything; so effortlessly and with no trauma or argument from Franklin. D made everything seem like it was one more fun time to be had with Dad.

Of course, these sappy and sentimental thoughts were intermixed with children's accounts of what it looks like to watch other children burn to death and how many bottles of water we need to keep in our house for when the earthquake happens and perhaps that 3 day food and water preparation should be bumped up to 7 days because who knows when help will arrive and perhaps we should stock up for the neighbours as well....

I'm still sick, but at least the fever has broken.

Hi.

I feel gross.
My throat has been sore for a couple of days and my head was pounding this morning.
This afternoon I feel extremely sick.

sick. sick. sick. sick. sick.

As well, I'm drowning in cars, excavators and dump trucks. Unfortunately, I highly doubt that asking Franklin to wear a tutu will make me feel any less balanced in the sex department of our home. I have no idea where this thirst for girly girl crap came from. I've never been much of a lip-gloss, french braid, plan my prom/wedding dress in the sixth grade kind of girl.

Wait a second, perhaps I'm spewing off too soon.
I distinctly remember a Barbie thong or ball gown (what's the difference) in my childhood.
I remember dressing my insanely complacent little brother in girl clothes and then carrying him around like a baby.
I still have my little tea set with the itsy bitsy handles and the itsy bitsy flowers painted on the itsy bitsy trim. Why was everything so itsy bitsy and why was I obsessed with them?
I still have my Shirley Temple book.
I still have my cutout dolls.

Oh, how I loved those cut out dolls.

I'm not saying I wish Franklin had been a girl. I know for certain that in about 10 or 11 years I'll be thanking the Lord he's devoid of hormonal cat-fights and squealing cliques consisting of everyone wearing the "in" nail polish colour.
However, I've been tramping around in trains and cars for three years now and I'm entertaining the idea of putting him ballet class if for only to get a chance to enter a room with tutus and pink ribbons.

There.
Good to get that out.

Franklin, please forgive me. It will be fun. It's all running around and doing "outside stuff", only you get to do it inside and in socks!

I am not even sorry
when I pull the wrong thing
Because I love the smell of
dirt and
Cilantro
on my fingers.


I wrote out this poem on a sticky and have pasted it to my computer at work. I stare at it and think about dirty fingernails when my job gets alternately too hectic or too boring to handle.

The only problem is I don't know who wrote it.
Why I didn't write down the author, I have no idea. Perhaps there wasn't one where I saw it. I have a faint recollection that I may have read it in a forum at You Grow Girl, but I haven't seen it since.

Can anyone help me?

Wednesday, the day I played SAHM, Franklin and I took our cat, Harry, to the vet. Harry wasn't eating or drinking. He wasn't pooping or peeing. Most of all, he wasn't moving from the beat up black chair by the back patio.

I talked to Franklin the night before about what is might be like to take our cat to the vet. I warned him that Harry might sound a little scared and I asked him to help me make Harry feel okay.

That morning, while I wrestled an obviously weak but extremely pissed off cat into the plastic purple carrying crate, Franklin cheerfully yelled out,

"It's okay Harry. It's okay honey!"

and

"What does bloody hell mean, Mum?"

The entire ride to the clinic was more of the same. Our cat howling, Franklin patting the top of the crate and reassuring him that everything was going to okay.

I think Franklin found it quite exciting. He certainly didn't think anything was going to go wrong at the vet clinic and D and I were careful to tell him that veterinarians make kitties feel better. This is in sharp contrast to me. I feel a cold chill down my neck whenever I walk into places like these. People hospitals are fine, however vet clinics are places of doom.

Even when the vet examined Harry and stuck a thermometer (gently) up his butt, Franklin was entertained. In fact, a little too entertained as my inquisitive son echoed every second word that came out of the vet's mouth and requested detailed definitions.

It was only when Harry was in the arms of the vet and she was walking out the wrong door that Franklin started to lose interest in the game.

Franklin is at a stage where everything is a question. The ability to be a walking dictionary is not as easy as it may sound. Try explaining to a 3 year old why cars go on the road, why grass grows on the ground, what is the difference between an Egyptian mummy and his own mommy, why things float, why the man next door is named Mark, what a name is, and why do we have words.

Now, once you have all of that figured out, try explaining to a confused child why our cat, who was told by this confused child that eveything was going to be okay, is being taken away and...

Won't he be scared?
I miss Harry
Where is he going?
I miss Harry
Why are we leaving?
I miss Harry
Why do we miss him?
I love Harry, too
Why do we love him?

What is love?

Harry spent two nights and three days at the vet clinic.
The IV, the antibiotics and the fecal floatation have cost us an embarrassing amount of money. However, the fever is down, Harry is back home and now we are faced with giving the most stubborn of cats two forms of syringe medications which cause him to foam at the mouth and emit horrible sounds of torture while our son calls out, almost as if on cue,

"It's okay, Harry!
Don't worry honey!
We love you, Harry!"

I wrote this post awhile ago but thought it sounded too much like a fishing exhibition. Yet sometimes, even for a seemingly exhibitionist like myself, it's good to get things out even if it's not post posted - you know?
However, here I sit with hits up the whazoo from who knows where and I really feel the need to say something about it all - as nice as it may seem that people want to read my site.

Also, I have to admit that I'm too preoccupied by my horror (and media obsession) with Hurricane Katrina and the action/inaction down there to write anything substantial (and comparatively trivial) about our cat the $700.00 we just handed over to the animal mafia vet clinic yesterday.


So anyway, here goes:
To those new to the world of blogs, my presence in various newspapers, magazines and websites as one of the "Top Canadian Bloggers" has little to do with my content and/or writing skill. I feel the need to point out that this is more a consequence of the vast number of blogs out there to chose from than my talent or "interestingness" (to borrow from flickr) and the enormous task for a journalist to actually wade through the masses in order to decide on their merit.

I was chosen to be one of the top bloggers in Canada for the month of August 2004 and now here I am, one entire year later, and no one else has been chosen as a subsequent monthly blogger. As a result, when you google "Canadian blogs", you will get this site at the top of the list. When you check out those listed under "top bloggers" you'll see my site still there (with some other extremely cool people).

I believe if you are a journalist who actually reads blogs, I will most likely not appear in your article. Perhaps if you are only learning about blogs, or need to fill a space concerning this "Weblog stuff" and don't have any idea what they are about (yet), you might start to think I am a good representation. I truly don't believe I am. I'm one small part of a much larger community. In fact, as a "Mommy Blogger", I'm a really small part of this culture. People blog about everything - politics, sex, travel, sport, family, war, jobs, technology, the world of Maddox Jolie, crafting, cooking, levitation, what's it's like to be a stunt double, photography, gardens, etc.

However, I have no other idea how to show journalists or new readers a better way to find interesting, witty and talented writers except to invite you to start by checking out the blogs I have listed on the side of my site (mostly other parents) or check out earlier months on Blogs Canada. It's not that I believe the journalists have done a poor job of their research, I just want you to know that I'm really not doing this alone. In fact, you can do this as well. It's very simple.

I'll have to warn you though, this may become addicting so leave some time open for the next couple of years.

(Did that sound weird? - because I feel kinda weird now.)

Work is a bit busy lately. Not only because of the work that I do, but because my breaks and lunch hours are taken up by stair-climbers, sit-ups and letters to city counselors about community gardens. As a result, I feel like I've been passing off some pretty lame entries to you, entries that take 5 minutes to write and make me feel guilty when I re-read them 5 hours later and notice all the grammatical errors and spelling mistakes.

Whatever the case may be, this nutty schedule isn't going to change anytime soon.
School starts after the weekend and I'm taking two courses this semester - more accurately, two courses and a lab. I suppose I feel that I just can't pass them up. I must be a sucker for new textbooks or something.
Actually, both of these courses are hard to come by as one is offered sporadically (Urban and Regional Economics) and the other (Global Environmental Changes and Human Response) is needed to start a whole chain of events for the future.
Besides, time is money... and sanity... and wrinkles... and lost baby-making/adopting opportunity.

I think I may be crazy, but I'm going to give it a shot. I've already read almost half of my text for one of the courses. Remember those annoying mature students who sat at the front of the class and asked questions from the extra readings? Yeah, I'm one of those now - except that I've got cooler hair.

Did you click that link?
How freaking cool do you think this course is going to be?
Very freaking cool.

I write "freaking" instead of fcuking because my mother-in-law has just recently arrived to the great internet party. Last night I helped her and her maritime friend (with the cutest accent in Canada) log onto flickr so she could see photos of her youngest grandson on a regular basis.
For some reason, I feel I can swear around my own mother (who has read this website since it's inception) but I don't want to appear un-ladylike to my mother-in-law.

Now that I've written that I'm trying to remember all the crazy things I've written on this site and I wonder if she'll be mildly entertained by it all or horrified that her precious son has been subjected to this babbling creature for so long.

Ah well, Bernice. It's nothing I wouldn't have told you over a couple bottles of wine anyway. Hell, I remember telling you about what magic mushrooms feel like while on a visit to Saltspring Island.
That was a good trip - yes, both to the island and in my mind.