Daddy's little helpers.

And so begins the dismantling of the wall between our living room and our dining room, something we've planned to do since moving into this house. First order of business was ripping out the built-in bookcase, the one and only shame about removing the redundant wall. 

Sonja was quick to bring out some "tools" to help with the task and proceeded to build an impressive structure on the back of my cruiser bike. Haven kept a close eye on the situation, making sure that Daddy performed the task correctly. She was ready to step in and take over at the first sign of trouble. ...I'm not sure if she was relieved or disappointed that her skills weren't required.

Personally, I can't wait to see this wall gone. Progress!

Moody mood mood.

It's not that it's been a bad day, but I just feel growly. I mean, it's actually been a good day overall, but I can't shake this feeling. And what is this feeling..?


I feel... well, growly. Like everything is piling up too quickly without giving me enough time to process, so I'm quickly overwhelmed, maxed out and feeling kinda cornered. And when I'm cornered, I'm very likely to growl.


Growly... and maybe a little snappish. Like if you aren't careful and you get too close too quickly, I might snap you. Or if I feel rushed and can't explain how I'm feeling in such a small amount of time, look out, you may get snapped.


Growly, snappish... and gloomful as a result. Like if I'm growly and snappish at you and I know you did nothing to truly deserve it, then you'll get my gloomful apology. It really is a sad state of affairs, since you had no idea that such an innocent thing would bring on a growly, snappish onslaught. A gloomful apology is genuine and wants to make it up to you once all the growly, snappish bits are worked out. 


Or maybe I just need a decent sleep...

These arms.

You are my Baby.


You will always be my Baby.


You were my Baby before you even existed and you will be my Baby long after I'm gone.


Every time I think of what might have happened if I'd made a different decision somewhere along the way, I realize that any slight change would have meant you were never born and I know that every decision I ever made was the right decision. 


With every victory, with every success, with every moment of joy, these arms will cheer you on, these arms will hold you high.


Whatever hardships, whatever happens, whatever tries to tear you down, there arms will always want and welcome you, these arms will pull you close and hold you tight. 


And when you need a gentle shove to get you going again, you can bet these arms will do the pushing.


You are my Baby, you will always be my Baby, and I am forever yours.

Photo essay: Scabby Lip eats a banana slice.

You never know, it might work.

I used to do silly things when I was younger. OK, OK, I still do too many silly things to list in one blog post. But when I was a teenager, I remember things like willing my hair to grow faster because it was in the dreaded in-between stage: too long to be short, too short to be long. I recall watching TV one evening and casually, so no one would notice, grabbing fistfuls of my hair and firmly pulling on it, thinking it might speed up the growing process. I'm just glad my Mom didn't see and ask me what the heck I was doing, since I don't know what I would have said.


In the spirit of such silliness, I'm posting photos of flowers and plants that I shot one glorious Spring day a few years ago. Here's hoping it gives Spring and Summer a little nudge.

Oh and if it's not too much trouble, let's please have lots of hot days filled with stuff like this:

Fat lip.

The day started innocently enough. I got up, downed some tea and took off to meet up with some friends for a run. The run started later than I had been expecting, but no matter. When I finally returned to my car to head home, I noticed that Peter had called me four times, left a message and texted me. I didn't read the text or check my voicemail, but I called him to tell him I was on my way. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I knew I was getting home almost an hour later than I had originally planned and I also knew Peter was hoping to leave for a long road ride with a friend, so I raced home.

As soon as I arrived home, I was presented with this face:

It was all an accident, but Haven's top lip took the full brunt of a fall while I was out running this morning. Peter was on his own to deal with the enormous amount of blood that ensued, all the while afraid that Haven's two front teeth may have been pushed back into her gums with the force of the fall. By the time I arrived home, the bleeding had all but stopped and I managed to feel around in her mouth, deciding her teeth looked and felt OK. But that swelling was something else! 

Haven was understandably unwilling to have anything cold pressed against her mouth, but she was more than happy to eat a fruit-juice freezy (or two). It seemed to staunch the last of the bleeding and helped to reduce the swelling somewhat. But the lip remained pretty puffy for the rest of the day and it turned rather red as the swelling started to recede. Peter didn't see exactly what happened, but whatever it was, it was a doozy.

But apparently not even a five-pound fat lip will stop my Little Handful. She didn't miss a beat today, getting into anything and everything within her reach, even trying to chew on the shopping cart when I took her to the grocery store this afternoon. And she was flashing her fat-lipped smile to anyone who caught her eye, forcing me to explain that she had hurt herself when they inevitably asked what had happened. 


Oh, to have the resiliency of a wee Babe. 

Same square, different colour.

As far back as I can remember, my Mom crocheted. She would crochet for hours at a time and she was remarkably fast, churning out whole afghans in just a few days. As quick as she was at crocheting, I was always amazed how quickly the work could be undone. Mom would sometimes have to go back to a certain point if she had made a mistake, so one pull and all of her hard work was gone, just like that. 

My Mom always makes afghans by first crocheting the individual granny squares and then sewing the squares all together before crocheting a thick border around the whole thing. 

I'm beginning to see parenting like crocheting an afghan and apparently I've been working on the same few granny squares for three years now. Sometimes I work on one single square for months at a time. I'll get to a point where I think I'm almost finished the square and then suddenly I have to pull out most of the work and start again.

Other times I'll put a seemingly finished square aside only to pull it out months later, noticing something's amiss and going back to work on it again.

And now I'm thinking intently about the process of making the afghan more than focusing on the finished product. I'm beginning to realize it will never truly be finished; I may someday get to the point where I sew all the squares together, but I doubt I will ever even start on the border.

Because as painstaking as it has been to crochet these few granny squares, I know that it can all unravel so quickly if I just pull the yarn. And some days I pull a lot of yarn before I realize how much of my own time I've wasted. Sometimes I just feel like pulling the yarn, you know? But it's comforting to know that I can always pick up the crochet hook and start over. ...and maybe this time I'll use a better colour.

We spend a lot of our time working toward goals and taking pride in completing tasks. If parenting is like crocheting an afghan, I hope this is a project I'll never quite finish; I would hate to think that I was ever finished learning, since I've learned so much already in this process and I've only just started. 

The last thing I'd want is to pass on a finished, yet poorly-made afghan to my kids when they are ready to become parents. I'd rather pass on all the hard work I've done over the years and let them build on it, rather than have them toss the afghan into the nearest closet to forget about. This is one family heirloom that should be worked on and added to and passed on again and again.

Besides, even if an afghan is only half finished, it can still keep your toes warm on a cold evening. A poorly-made afghan is just a blanket full of holes.

Well, even a well-made afghan is a blanket full of holes, but you get my meaning.