Mad Gab

"Meh-toe Pay-toe Mace"

Ian said this to me today. It took about 8 repetitions and finally him bringing the object to me for me to actually get what he was saying.

Give up? For whatever reason... Actually, no, I know the reason. Because he's a dorky, goofy kid, Ian has decided that Mr. Potato Head is now Mr. Potato Face. And he laughs and laughs whenever he says it because he knows it's SILLY!

I don't think I would have guessed what he was saying had he not brought me the poor potato dude.

Be OK

Once I had the Bigs in bed tonight, I sunk into the rocking chair in Kyle's room to nurse him. It was a rough day today. Actually, it's been a rough go for the last several days.

Shaun's excited about Senior Kindergarden and unbelievably anxious at the same time. He switches from jumping up and down flapping his arms and hands, to wimpering and whining about having to go back. Ian has been screaming an awful lot and it's at such a decible, it makes my ears ring. Kyle is teething, he's decided he doesn't need his third nap anymore which has increased the Witching Hour from 2 hours to 3, and he's determined to figure out how to switch from sitting on his bum to laying on his tummy without face-planting every. single. time.

It's hard being on my own at the end of the day. Dinner time is the worst and it's even more difficult because everyone is tired and hungry and needing something all at the same time, and it's only me who can help them. Often I end up foregoing dinner for myself alltogether and eating once everyone is in bed and quiet and I can enjoy a warm meal with no interruptions. Most days I'm on a 2 1/2 hour countdown from 5PM. Dinner, dishes, baths, jammies, stories, bed. It can't go quick enough.

Tonight I could hear Shaun chatting to himself about the Spiderman jammies he's wearing tonight; planning his next move on Venom. Ian was quietly humming to himself and rustling his fresh sheets as he snuggled in for a long nap. Kyle's eyes were rolling back into his head and I listened to the sound of his bare feet stroking the arm of the rocking chair. As the rush of milk came, all the sounds of the house ceased except for the occasional swallow from the baby at my breast. At that moment I realized something -- It won't always be so easy to make everything okay. All my boys need is right here. Our house could burn down tomorrow, the van could be stolen and we could have a negative balance in our bank account, but my boys are happy and safe - that's all that truly matters.

Turning a Leaf in More Ways Than One

After the disaster I found myself in last Friday, I really and truly wanted to hide in my backyard for the rest of the fall until winter, when I could just wear a hat to cover the mess my hair had become. I desperately called around on Friday night trying to find someone who could fix my hair on short notice without success. Saturday was more of the same.

Craig and I had to get some school shopping done for Shaun, though, so we headed off to the mall on Saturday morning. I was tempted to walk into a salon in the mall and beg to have someone help me but I soon realized that there's so little length to play with and I run the risk of STILL not being happy with the new 'fixed cut'. So I hung my head as we walked around, trying not to make eye contact with anyone, fearing they'd know me and comment on my hair.

When we got home, I washed my hair and decided I had to make the best of a BAD, BAD situation.

After an hour playing around with different styles, some gel, hairspray, and wax...Voila. It's still not the look I was going for originally but at least I don't feel the need to walk around with a paper bag on my head until it grows in.

Tinkerbell

I took a leap today. A completely spontaneous one. One that I told myself I was absolutely NOT going to do. At least not until I had stewed over it for a while. And certainly not in the location it ended up being.

Now I can't go back. And I hate it. The only positive thing: hair grows back.

Craig's step-mom is a hairstylist. Perk, right? Usually it would be. I've been thinking about a 'pixie' cut for a while (by while, I mean a couple of days) but knew I didn't want to go to her for the cut. You see, I only get my hair cut once a year - if that - because I never like the way it's cut. Too floofy at the ends, too long, uneven length, bangs too short, too many layers; I wish she would just do what I tell her to do and leave the rest the heck alone. I went this morning for a trim. Long story short, I got my hair chopped. And it's not a pixie cut like I wanted. I want to crawl into a hole for the next 8 months until it grows back.

I'll post a picture when I'm feeling a bit better about it. And once I pay a real stylist to fix this disaster that is my head.

Under Roo

I'm soooo proud of my little Beanie-Butt. Two days in a row he's come running to me saying he has to poo in the potty. We've had him in undies since the end of July and he's done remarkably with pee; it's been poo that's been a struggle. For the last 2 weeks he's caught himself at the beginning and I've managed to get him on the potty in time to finish but he's been having trouble recognizing how his body feels before anything comes out. Needless to say, the laundry sink has been getting quite the workout and I'm not regretting having 29 undies for him (yes, 29). But with this newest milestone of knowing when he's beginning to feel like he has to poo, we could be in the home stretch. Only just turned 2 and already wearin' the under-roos like he's been doin' it his whole life!

New Age

I'm so far behind. I don't even have time to put away laundry - we've just been taking clean stuff from the baskets and throwing that on in the mornings - so I certainly don't have time to be blogging. I never realized how much I use the computer on a daily basis until it was gone.

I find inspiration for recipes on here (did you know that Kraft Canada has a terrific website full of gnarly-good stuff?), do all our banking, find curriculum ideas on weekly themes for the childcare business I have; so much that I was actually kind of lost for the 8 days we didn't have the computer. I must say, though, the house sure was clean! And all the laundry was washed, folded and put away! I've wondered lately how women 100 years ago had so many kids, kept their houses pristine, had dinner on the table every night, and worked in the fields... they didn't have a computer! Well, that, and they lived in a much different time where weekly playdates weren't organized off-site with other Mums, full-time secular employment was unheard of, and most families had at least one older child who helped look after the young ones when Mum was busy.

Okay, now that I've gone on about pretty much nothing, I will get to the task at hand. We had some family photos taken about a month ago now (it took a couple of weeks to get the CD from the photographer and then the computer died...) and I've been itching to share some with you all. (Should that be y'all?)

Unfortunately the photographer wasn't able to get any of just Kyle by himself because he was busy stuffing his face with my breast. The whole photo session lasted a couple of hours because it included Craig's parents and his 2 sisters with their families. By the time our family was done, Kyle was frantic to eat so I snuck away to the van and fed him in there. In this case, a bottle would have been far more convenient.

Computers Suck

Since we were without a computer, I couldn't check anyone's comments on my last post. Foolishly, we decided to fix the Motherboard on this beast (it's actually not a beast; we only bought it not even 2 years ago but no warranty anymore :( ) and now everything is gone. If I had known we'd start from scratch with everything, we would have just went ahead and bought a new tower. We still have Windows but it's still Vista which is what we were running before - a new computer would have come with Windows 7; one of the hard drives isn't working AT ALL and it's the one with ALL my photos from when Ian was 4 months old until now, plus thousands of downloaded songs; there's no way we will ever be able to get that back unless we pay big bucks and go to a data recovery place. Thank everything holy that I regularly develop all our photos into hard copy and place them into albums so we're only missing some from early this summer, perhaps 20. Every single program and toolbar and whatever we had installed since we bought the computer is gone. Gone. Gone.

I have half a mind to say to hell with it all and go out and buy a Mac because this shit sucks.

Crossroads

We're without a computer. This explains the absense of late. We're not sure whether we'll just buy a new tower and processor or if we'll fix the old one. It'll be hundreds of dollars no matter which way we go, the only difference being whether we want to spend $300 or $500. What would you do?

Two

Dear Beanie,

I don't really know where to begin or how to put words to how I'm feeling. You turned 2 today. Two years ago today Daddy and I welcomed your slippery little self right in the very same room where you were first created. Your impatientness has never gone away, nor has your insistence to do things your own way, even if it's the hard way.

I joke with people that you're a shopping list of trouble; always getting into one thing or another, trying to help the grown-ups do big people stuff. Like the time you wanted to remove a toy motorcycle from its base so you dug through the junk drawer for a screwdriver and removed the screw all by yourself because you didn't want to wait for me to help you.

You still have a stubborn faux-hawk perched on the top of your head even though we've trimmed it and even buzzed your hair right down to the scalp.

You drag around your bankie, Meme, everywhere and announce to everyone he is, "My Meme!" Meme has been washed and sprayed and bleached. He's joined you in the sandbox, on the swings, in pillow forts and quiet cupboard hideouts. He's been known to wipe sticky peanut butter fingers and mop juice spills off the floor. He is your best friend but his tag is your favourite. In the beginning Meme had a tag that you would diligently pull to straighten before rubbing it gently on your nose. As the months passed, Meme's tag wound itself more tightly until one day you couldn't straighten it anymore. So you jammed the twisted end of Meme's tag up your nose. Now, while Meme is still precious, Meme's tag is what comforts you in your saddest moments.

You love to run and I love to watch your short little legs trotting so quickly from one room to the next.

When you smile your goofy smile and crinkle your nose, sigh, I just have to smile, too. You've learned it's a surefire way to get out of trouble.

I love how you're always the first one up in the morning and you quietly sneak into our room and grunt and huff and puff when trying to climb into our bed. And when you finally make it you squirm in between Daddy and I and pull the covers up over your head so we won't know you're there.

You say "mo-dee-dee" for motorcycle, and "hah-too-too" for helecopter. Shaun is Non-Non and Kyle is Tie-yo. I always giggle when you say you're going to Grampa and Grampa's house. Then when Shaun corrects you, you get so mad because, to you, you're saying it correctly.

You love getting tickled. If my hand brushes by your leg or arm, you'll pull up your shirt and say, "more tickles please, right here," pointing to your belly. I'll gently stroke your soft toddler skin, passing over the bruises on your legs from your latest adventures.

I love that you love oatmeal. And apples. And salad. And pizza. A boy after my own stomach.

I love listening to you after I've tucked you in as you sing to yourself and mumble rhymes that we chant and repeat to one another all day long. "...this little piggy had beef, one step, two steps, all the way home."

I love that writing this, thinking of you sleeping in your bed right now with your bum way up in the air and Meme wrapped around your neck, makes me cry. And not just little weeny tears. I'm crying big fat I Love You tears. The kind of tears I only reserve for My Boys. I know you were picked for us for a reason. To help me stop and remember why this job, being a Mum, is so wonderful.

You are my Beanie Butt. I love you so much my head spins. Thank you for choosing me to be your Mumma.

Can I Get a "Yes, Please!"

It started as a financial thing, this whole makin' of the baby food, and has morphed into something much more fulfilling and satisfying.

The only thing Shaun ever ate as baby food that was out of a jar was some sort of wierd risotto concoction when we were camping the summer he turned 1. He hated it and I never bought a single jarred food after that.

Ian is a bit of a crunchy granola-type kid. He was born at home, has never tasted a jarred baby food, and prefers to walk around wearing nothing all day long. He's quite the sight running down the sidewalk chasing Shaun!

I was worried that I would have trouble finding time to make food for Kyle and I'll be the first to admit that he doesn't have nearly as much variety as the other boys had simply because of the time of year. Shaun and Ian had all kinds of wonderful fall squash and pumpkins, fresh applesauce made from apples we picked together that same day, beets and parsnips pureed together in a pretty pink mash. I finally sucked it up about a month ago and spent a few hours on a Saturday making baby food. Then I went to the library and grabbed First Meals for more of my favourite recipes I used for Ian.

Today Kyle was introduced to fish but not just plain fish. He enjoyed fresh tilapia fillets poached in orange juice with a sprinkling of cheddar cheese, pureed with steamed carrots and sweet potatoes. His expression said, "hell yeah!" so I tasted it and considered forfeiting my BBQ Italian sausage with mashed sweet potatoes and mesclun salad for some of Kyle's lunch; it was THAT good. Kid eats better than me and he doesn't even have any teeth! Well, one. But it's a stump still.

Old Habits Die Hard

As a kid, my parents - my Mum, mostly - would tell me things. You know, typical parent stuff like, "if you keep crossing your eyes they're going to stay like that," and, "one day you'll run out of breath so you'd better stop talking." Most of it I never really believed and realized it was just a bunch of nonsense but some I actually believed and have kept with me until recently. Seriously.

I'm 29 years old for goodness sake and only this summer have I really began to think critically about some of the ridiculous things my Mum told me when I was a kid. For example, she insisted to me that I only use conditioner on the ends of my hair because otherwise, the roots would never be clean and my hair would be perpetually greasy. I only ever used conditioner on the ends of my hair until we had some family photos taken a couple of weeks ago. In preparation for the photos I decided to take a risk and condition all my hair *gasp* since it would need the extra moisture from blowdrying anyway. Amazingly, my hair looks healthy and shiny and isn't at all greasy.

The other thing she always told me was about my bras. I have a relatively large chest; even bigger when I'm breastfeeding or pregnant. So does she. She insisted to me that I wear bras that have absolutely no padding in them so as not to make my chest size any larger than it already was. I've been frustrated my whole life with sagging boobs and bras that don't fit quite right. My epiphany moment was while talking to a friend who also has big breasts. She told me that bras without padding are the worst for her because she just stretches them out within a dozen uses. The padded ones hold their shape much better and offer her far more support without creating a uni-boob. My Mum would just die knowing I wear padded bras... well, I will when the boob juice stops flowing.

Another strange myth that sticks in my mind is about makeup. I don't wear makeup but not because I never wanted to. When I was a teen I suffered from acne - like any teen - and went on birth control pills to help control it. At the time my doctor advised me to not use foundation or powder because it could clog my pores and cause irritation. My Mum convinced me that makeup of any kind would damage my skin. Eyeliner, mascara, blush; anything expect for oil-free moisturizer and suncreen had to be completely avoided. I believed her and so, never learned to use any of that stuff. Now I'm closing in on 30 and not only is the cosmetic aisle at the pharmacy overwhelming, I've never even worn foundation a single day in my life. Well, maybe that's a lie. I wore it for my wedding but that was thanks to my mother-in-law who did it for me. I'm positive my face will not break out into wild, angry zits the moment I put on any form of makeup.

There's so many other wierd things my Mum told me would happen that only now I am realizing were literally 'old wives' tales'. She was a country gal and maybe she learned all these things from her Mum. Wherever they came from, I can't believe I have 3 kids of my own and am only starting to think critically about these wild ideas.

Ch Ch Ch Changes

Wow. Where to begin. As usual I have absolutely no time to be sitting here typing away and even less to upload the hundreds of photos from my camera onto the computer so I can share some of what we've been doing.

Three weeks and 20 hours after we started, we finally finished stripping the garage door in preparation for painting it. It was starting to crack with an aligator-type scaling pattern and I knew if we just painted over it, it would happen over and over again. I borrowed a heat stripper from a neighbour 2 doors down and worked for about an hour a day during nap time or after the kids went to bed. Craig worked, too, and we were able to finish it on Monday this week. Then today I repainted the whole thing. It looks so much better than it did and I'm so proud that we were able to start something so tedious and completely finish it.

Now that I have the painting bug I went out and bought more paint for the front door and the exterior trim and pillar. The front door had this one spot that was bubbled and split, exposing the galvanized metal underneath; plus it was the same colour as the garage which I know is a decorating No-No (ahh, what do I know, it was my Mum who told me that). So this afternoon I sanded the front door and washed it all down before painting it black. Yep, black. I've always wanted a black front door. I remember one house in the neighbourhood where I grew up had a black front door. I walked past that house every single day on the way to and from school from age 7 to 19 and promised myself that, one day, I'd have a black front door, too. Our house will be the envy of all the teenie-boppers who walk past on their way to the junior highschool down the street.

We went to Craig's uncle's cottage last weekend with Craig's parents and sisters, along with their families. It was generally uneventful aside from being put to work by Craig's uncle. It seems whenever we go up there we're assigned whatever job he's chosen for us. In the past it's been laying stone for the massive driveway, running pipe for in-ground sprinklers, laying sod, weeding the endless planting beds; this time it was putting down interlocking bricks on the staircase that winds down the side of the ridge to get to the beach. It was hard, heavy, dirty work and everyone worked like dogs. I appreciate that we're given the opportunity to stay at the cottage without charge but it feels like he's using us as free labor. I think I'd rather go to my family's cottage - which is far more humble than Craig's uncle's - and actually relax instead of favoring my sore hamstrings for 4 days.

The biggest news of all: Ian's potty trained! We started last week on Monday by taking away diapers during the day completely. There were a lot of pee accidents those first couple of days but he slowly learned to hold his pee for longer periods of time and by the time we drove to the cottage on Friday, Ian was holding his pee for over an hour. We stopped once on the 2 hour drive for him to pee and he remained dry through the whole weekend expect from one pee in his undies when he didn't quite make it to the potty on time. He's also been using the potty on his own a few times (so far it's nearly always us reminding him it's time to go). Pretty exciting stuff for a little guy who isn't quite even 2 years old yet. I'm so proud of him.

The most interesting thing is watching how much he's adapted to wearing underwear. Early last week he'd walk to the diaper basket in the playroom and pull one out and ask for it.

"Diaper on, Mumma, please. Right now."

It was hard to say no when he'd ask so nicely. He'd lay down on the carpet when I'd change Kyle's bum and ask for a diaper too. I've never seen him lay so still for a diaper change... ever. But we never gave in and Ian stayed in underwear during the day. Through pee accidents and poop explosions we consistenly wiped his bum and dug another pair of underwear out of the basket. Yesterday he got really mad when bedtime came and I tried to put a diaper on him.

"No diaper, Mumma! Unnies, these ones," as he pointed to a new pair of blue underwear plastered with little green tree frogs. I had to put the underwear over his diaper go get him to agree to wear it. He's still not able to stay dry through the night but staying dry all day has been a big step. Soon. Nighttime will come soon.

Pockets and Smells

Ian has discovered that things have pockets. He searches for them in purses and diaper bags; digs through coats and sweaters; comments on strangers' pockets. Too many times I've heard a distant rattle coming from the laundry room only to discover upon opening the washing machine that a handful of stones has found its way out of his pockets and into the drum. I've also found half chewed granola bars, sucked-on mints from restaurants, dandelion flowers, dinky cars, Lego pieces, Crayola marker lids, stickers; you name it, it's been in Ian's pockets. Pockets are such an attraction these days that he refuses to wear anything that doesn't have them but will quickly agree to get dressed if you throw pockets into the equation. "Ian, it's time to put your clothes on. Guess what? Your shorts have... POCKETS!" And he'll come running.

Kyle continues to charm me. Maybe I've learned to enjoy my time with him now because in a way I feel like I missed out on a lot because of the PPD. Or maybe it's because deep down I know that he's going to be way too big way too fast - after I get through the next 7 years of NOs, WHYs, and BUTs. Perhaps since he's the very last one I want to savour every single moment and breathe in all his baby scent so maybe I'll be able to call upon the soothing smell when I'm old and mad that he's out past curfew. There's something about baby smell that just calms my soul. It's not even the bubbly water he soaks in for his bath, or the cream I lather into his chubby creases; he just has this smell. When he opens his mouth and his tongue passes by my nose, it leaves a wet spot that smells as sweet and clean as anything I could imagine. If I could bottle that scent I'd be a billionaire. Because everyone wants to be able to call upon pure, virgin, baby smell when they need it most: when life gets too hectic and we need a reminder of why we started on this journey so long ago. It's perfect.

Rabbit Lunch

Today at lunch Ian was chatting away as he always does about cats milling around under his highchair waiting for something to drop, the city bus driving past our house, the fly buzzing on the window; then he said, "Look! Yellow rabbit." Hmm. Perhaps there was a rabbit in the backyard. I asked him where and he answered, "right here," and pointed to his plate of noodles in front of him.

Indeed, there's a yellow rabbit. Complete with a pepper grind eyeball. Is he freaking brilliant or what?




Here's the original so you can see what he saw:

Humor

Shaun: Ian, do you want to smell my bum? *erupts into uncontrollable giggles*

Ian: *walks over to Shaun, bends down, smells Shaun's bum*

Shaun: *giggling so hard he can barely get the words out* Ian, I just farted and farts are made from poo. You smelled my poo!

Ian: *runs crying to me* Mumma, Non-non 'mell! Noooooo!

Free Collectible

A talkative, smart, almost-five year old is free to a non-smoking home for a short-term arrangement.

He keeps his room neat and always places his dirty clothes in the laundry hamper. He loves Lego and playing out scenes as a pirate or a knight. He also has a fascination with snakes and dinosaurs but is terrified of blood of any kind: real or fake; his or someone else's. Fruits and most vegetables are a sure winner with him, whereas meat is hit and miss, and grains are a big 'nope'. Outside activities he enjoys include road hockey, golf, making bows and arrows, and building things in the sandbox with leaves and sticks. You'd be able to sleep in every day with him around because he's in bed before 8PM, doesn't wake up through the night, and sleeps at least 12 solid hours.

The potential family must be able to listen to him talk non-stop from morning until night; through mealtime, while on the toilet, while brushing teeth, during story time, when the radio is on... non stop. They also must be prepared to have their world revolve around him, as he constantly interrupts and insists on being THE center of attention at all times. He gets along really well with younger siblings but only while he's in charge.

Duration of the visit would depend on how much I miss him and how much I am longing for his return. Delivery can be arranged for a small charge. Clothing and his favourite toys will be included but will need to be returned with him.

I love him to death; he's my firstborn. I need some time to be reminded of WHY I love him. Having a few days without him would be beneficial.

This super deal won't last long. Contact me soon! ;)

Six Months - Part Deux

I felt the need to commemorate Kyle's 6 month birthday but didn't have the time to actually say anything until now. And I think my attempt at doing something artistic with his first sitting-up photo is pitiful. Oh well. I can't be perfect at everything!

So, yes, Kyle's 6 months old and I'm six months away from being completely free from breastfeeding, pregnancy, hormones, labor, baby books, choosing a name, baby food, diapers... well, not diapers but that will come soon enough! I am done having children. Never have I felt it as strongly as I do at this moment. I have no doubt that 3 is the perfect number for me. It's been partially imposed on me since Craig has made sure to tell me that he will not be making any more babies, but also I know in my deepest thoughts that there are no more babies. And I'm okay with that. No, I'm great with that.

I had a brief - what shall we call it - waver, I guess, back when I was around 6 months pregnant with Kyle. Craig had always said that we could have as many kids as I wanted as long as we could financially support all of them. In my head I was thinking 5 but was only brave enough to chuckle about having 4 in front of him. I had all these schemes up my sleeve on how we were going to pay for this or that because I truly believed I was meant to be a mum to a brood of children. We were blessed with the ability to have children and have them turn out healthy (well, Ian's a complete nutball but that's for another post!) so who are we to decide when enough is enough. We are responsible parents, that's who. I'm positive we'd be able to continue to be financially secure with another child in the house, heck, another 2, even. But we'd be strapped and the kids would eat a lot of oatmeal and ham sandwiches and pasta. We'd never be able to do half of the things we've promised ourselves we will do with our kids and we certainly don't want to live like that. Three is a perfect number.

Do you know how I know? Well, I'll tell ya. I know because putting away the baby stuff as Kyle outgrows it doesn't make me sad. I'm washing it and removing all the stains just like I'd be using it on another baby, and folding it carefully before placing it into the bin, but then the bin is making its way to another family and all I can do is think about how cute their little guy will be in all those outfits. I'm taking pictures of the crib all put together because it'll be sold when Kyle's done using it. When something is put away I make sure the instructions are with it and package it all neatly so the eventual garage sale goes off without a hitch. Every milestone that Kyle reaches is really and truly the very last time I will see one of my babies do that for the first time, and that makes me happy. I have so many other milestones to look forward to that I can't even begin to feel sad about what I'm leaving behind.

It's like people hoarding things in their house because of the memories attached to them. The stuffed pig from the carnival that your dead uncle won for you playing Wack-A-Mole is not your uncle. The memory of your uncle will not disappear when the stuffed pig is gone. Same with the crib, the Moses Basket (oh, how I love that basket), the tiny newborn slippers, the Nuk soothers, the basket of washclothes beside the rocking chair to wipe spit up from nighttime feeds; it's all memories but it's also all stuff.

I feel lighter already having put away the playpen from the living room. Kyle's sturdy enough to sit without toppling now and the rest of the family has gotten quite used to him being around so there's not much risk of him being trampled. Not as much as when he was a newborn and Ian had only been walking for 3 months, anyway. The playpen, while it was great to use as a change station, it ended up collecting a lot of things that didn't belong in there once Kyle didn't nap in it anymore.

Back when I was still in high school I remember this radio program where they'd challenge a caller to find a secret item in their junk drawer. The item would be revealed on air while the caller was on hold and then they had to name off everything in their junk drawer within a time limit to win a prize. I have a junk drawer, believe it or not, and it's chockablock full of junk. So full that the playpen became my second junk drawer for things that were too big to fit in the official one. I would kick ass at that game if it were still on the air.

Hmm, funny, I started this post with all these thoughts in my head of how to update it for Kyle's semi-annual and I've succeeded at doing everything but.


He went for his shots and check up this morning:
Weight - a hefty 18 pounds, 14 ounces
Height - 27 1/2 inches long (tall?)

In comparison, Shaun was 1 and a half pounds lighter and Ian was 2 pounds lighter at the same age. Kyle's the size the other two were at 9 months old. The other two are beanpoles so it's going to interesting to see what happens to Kyle as he grows and becomes more active. I think he's going to have a Martin face but Jambor body structure, whereas Shaun and Ian look moreso like me and are lanky like Craig was as a kid. I tease Craig that he was skinny because he was malnourished and ate strawberry milkshakes (milk with a big scoop of strawberry jam stirred in) and raw hotdogs every day of the week.

Six Months

Troll

I think Shaun's trying to be a fierce knight here, given the knight's tunic he's wearing and the sword he's wielding. But I think he looks like a grumpy old troll!

My Happy Place

It's late and I should be in bed because morning comes too soon around here these days. But I've been thinking. A lot. Thinking about where I am in my life and about all the things around me that have made me who I am. All the people that have come and gone who have left memories in my head. And places where I can close my eyes and imagine I am. Happy places.

The cottage.

One of my earliest memories is of the cottage. Summer meant weeks on end spent there. The musty smell when we'd open the front door, the sound of the curtains as they'd open and let the sunlight flood in, the sand in the beds, the sweltering attic that was always packed full of stacked old mattresses. I'd clambor up onto that stack and then launch myself off onto a pile of pillows I had dragged up from the living room.

As night would come the grown-ups would sit on the veranda with sweaty highballs and talk with hushed voices, while us kids would giggle and steal pink pistachios from the bowl on the kitchen table. We never figured out how our parents always knew we'd been stealing pistachios. Now I see my boys' pink fingertips. When one of the parents would stand to come inside I'd stiffen my body and press my eyes closed; holding my breath afraid to breathe in case they realized I was still awake. I know they must have heard us.

Outside there's this chair on the veranda. Painted so many times the screw heads have all but disappeared. Soft cushions cover the seat and back. When I sit in it I am just the perfect height to watch the water for hours over the railing and not have to move. As a kid I would bring my cross stitch projects to that chair. It has arms that are perfectly wide enough to balance a can of Coke on. There's a rug on the porch that is worn almost through in places. The fringe has been matted and tangled from the decades of families wiping their feet.

Inside, the walls are paneled with nails poking out of them where pictures once hung. Mirrors grace every wall and remind me that I haven't brushed my hair yet today and that I'm still in my pyjamas as the clock ticks toward noon. In one corner the wood stove sits idle, waiting for fall when we'll fill it up with logs to warm our frozen hands. A vase of white silk flowers stand erect on the kitchen table that is covered by an old bedspread with a jungle theme and tigers. My boys love the tiger tablecloth. I could show you all the old stains on it from when I was a little girl and my pink popsicle dribbled down my hand and soaked into the tiger's paw.

It's not a new cottage or an elegant, luxurious cottage. It stands on stilts that are slowly sinking into the earth, tilting the floors and forcing door jambs out of square. But this cottage that smells funny and is host to any number of creatures is also my happy place. Driving down the road that leads to the cottage, suddenly I feel lighter and breathe easier. My stress is gone. No longer do I think about laundry, email, or vegetables for dinner. No telephones ring because there aren't any. The television with rabbit ear antennae stays tucked against the wall. We can't find the remote and no one cares. There's no need to watch TV.

I share my happy place with my boys. Today on the way home Shaun was crying because he wanted to stay at the cottage forever. He has a happy place, too.