Ducks, goats, peacocks and turtles.

Every time there is a change of seasons, I am flooded with nostalgic memories of my favourite elements of that season. I'll list a few examples. Summer: the smell of hot pavement drenched by a sudden summer rain. Fall: wading through piles of wet, pungent leaves on my way across my elementary schoolyard. Winter: savouring a steaming bowl of homemade soup after walking home from school in an icy rain. Spring: those cloudy days when the sky is grey but the grass is lush and there are cherry blossoms raining down onto the streets and parked cars; a veritable blanket of tiny pink petals.

We have gone to Beacon Hill park every Spring since Sonja was born to see the ducks, pet the baby goats, marvel at the majestic peacocks and peahens, and quietly admire the sunbathing turtles. 


The first time I took her to see the goats, Sonja was only about four-months old and had no idea what was going on, but I just had to rake her tiny hand through a baby goat's coat. The next year she was fascinated; walking around and around the pen, stunned at the antics of the rowdy, nibbling, bouncing goats. She chased ducks across the field until they dove into the ponds to escape and then she looked at me and squealed in disappointment, as if to ask "why won't they let me squeeze them?" Sonja was awestruck by the stoic, sunbathing turtles and I was surprised and impressed that she didn't rush at them. I actually think she was unconvinced that they were really alive; their stillness confused her.

Goat stampede!

If we continue this tradition, I wonder if Sonja and Haven will have nostalgic memories of our Springtime visits to Beacon Hill Park: the scent of the wood chips in the goat pen; the sound of the fountains in the duck ponds; the plaintive, catlike cry of the peacocks; the deceptively quick retreat of the turtles as they soundlessly slip into the murky water.

Well, I guess if they need any help remembering these times, they need look no further than the hundreds of photos I take everywhere we go. Seriously, all their memories are going to include me pointing a camera at them...

100 words: Red is best.

Jada liked the orange marker a lot and the pink was a favourite. Blue was useful for colouring water and skies and she couldn’t draw suns without yellow. But red was the best. 

Jada imagined she was a fancy lady as she drew a picture of a fancy room with fancy furniture. All the furniture was red. She coloured Fancy Lady’s lips and fingernails red. 

“You like the red, huh?” asked her Dad. He was chuckling. Jada looked up at him. She smiled and twirled, showing off her red lips and nails, the picture-perfect Fancy Lady. Daddy’s Little Girl.

Game, set, match.

I realized this evening that I am like a tennis-match spectator at our table during suppertime. So I suppose that makes it table tennis, but no matter. Back and forth, back and forth... feeding one, then the other. I'm not going to lie: sometimes it's horrible. Sonja refusing to eat, Haven putting all her food into her water glass, barely being able to eat my own meal, you name it.

Other times, it's just fun and I'm reminded how lucky I am. Case in point:

Girl's best friend.

Is a love of shoes innate or learned? I'd honestly like to know, because both my girls have a magnetic attraction to shoes. It's fascinating. We went to one of my favourite shoe stores today and Sonja and Haven were practically vibrating with excitement the moment we walked through the door. 

At one point Sonja had three different shoes in her hands and was insisting that she needed them all. The look on her face told me that she was totally and completely serious; the world might come to an end without three new pairs of Converse.

Haven spent the whole time deciding on which colour shoes were best. She systematically brought every shoe within her reach down for a close inspection before tossing it aside and reaching for the next. She finally decided that the pink ones and the black-and-green ones were the best.

When I told Sonja that we were actually there to buy me some shoes, she gave me an injured look and said, "But we're always buying you shoes!" Uh no, Honey. You're confusing me with you.

Biking in the gym with the boys.

Sonja brought her run bike to gym day at Strong Start today. Several of the little boys checked out her bike, and Sonja was just so cute, riding it around while they watched. 

It wasn't long before Sonja was riding alongside a bunch of furiously-pedalling boys on tricycles. She was so smooth, her stride long, her smile wide. 

It's the first time that she's been red-cheeked during gym time. ...She doesn't usually work up too much of a sweat on the slide.

Sweet old luscious life.

Am I a fatalist? I've never been entirely sure. I strive to be an optimist and I always hold out hope, even in the darkest moments. And if you asked me if I believed that my life was predetermined, I would likely chuckle and assure you I didn't. Why then do I sometimes have such overpowering feelings of dread when certain situations present themselves? Why am I sometimes so sure that the very act of thinking up unpleasant scenarios will bring about disaster? As if the very act of thinking a horrible thought sets in motion its inevitable realization, and I'm just a helpless bystander unable to stop the churning procession; every action, conscious or unconscious, furthering the manifestation of my worst nightmare. Perhaps it's not a belief in fate and bad omens at all, but simply a fear of self-fulfilled prophecy. And if that's the case, maybe I'm more superstitious than fatalistic. Either way, it's enough to drive me batty.


We were on our way to Peter's parents' yesterday for lunch when Patrick Watson's Luscious Life began to play on the truck's stereo. It's a fantastic song and a favourite of Peter's and mine. I wasn't entirely surprised when Peter mentioned that Luscious Life is on his list of songs to be played at his funeral, since I have a mental list of my own of songs to be played when I die. It's something people do. But suddenly I had tears under my sunglasses and was struggling to keep my chin from quivering, giving me away. I stopped myself from blurting out what my heart was begging me to say: "Don't talk about your funeral. Ever."


I've always had a tough time when Peter travels. I cannot seem to stop my mind from imagining the worst. I've imagined the midnight telephone calls from the police, the TV newscast of a highway pileup featuring his totalled truck front and centre, the radio newsman telling of a plane gone down. And worse. Apparently my mind takes great pleasure in torturing me.


When I was pregnant with Sonja, I was waiting for Peter to pick me up from work one evening and he was taking a very long time to show up. It was a warm, summer night, still light out and I was waiting outside the store for what felt like forever. I was getting a bit peeved, but then I started to worry. I had been calling him on my cell phone and he wasn't answering. What if something had happened to him on the way to pick me up? What if he had been in an accident? As if on cue, I started to hear sirens. They seemed to be coming from everywhere and they were all headed to an area that lay between our house and my work. By this point, I was panicking. I started to walk in the direction of home, toward the sound of the sirens. I was openly crying; I was convinced those sirens had to do with Peter.


In the end, there had been a miscommunication, or Peter had lost track of time, or something equally innocent. He was fine. And after years of being together, Peter knows that I worry incessantly about his safety when he's away from home, so he was very understanding and apologetic that lovely summer evening when I was pregnant and convinced I was about to become a single parent to a child who would never know her father. For the record, I don't consider myself too much of a drama queen and I attribute a lot of that panic to being pregnant (because I can and no one will argue). But in all honesty, my reaction that day was a visible display of what I quite often feel inside but keep under wraps: I am terrified of losing Peter, of having our life together cut short, of not being able to tell or show him how much I love him, because there aren't enough days or words. I am terrified that there will never be enough days, that once this is all over my only wish will be for just one more day, just one more moment, just one more word, My Love.

So at the end of the day, I know I'm not a fatalist. I've spent too many hours pondering the road not taken to believe in one possible ending, one path. I'm far too pragmatic and skeptical to rely solely on fate or God or anything else, but I'm not above indulging in a little superstition here and there to help wish myself out of a sticky situation. I'm that most aggravating of non-believers: the flip-a-coin, kiss-a-toad, cross-my-fingers, get-my-ass-out-of-this-mess, rainy-day believer, who will call on God, Buddha, Yahweh and any other spiritual, moony whatever-you've-got if it will keep Peter safe on the road, keep my kids happy and healthy and allow me to be around to see it all. If there were a guarantee of that, I would sign up for just about anything. 

Photo essay: Happy Easter.

100 words: Dirty dishes, potty mouth.

The broken plate lay in wait under the sudsy water. When she reached in for the next dish, she was thinking about the meeting with Darla's teacher, wishing she hadn't said "shit" by accident, wishing he hadn't looked so shocked. People swear; get over it.

The broken plate sliced her finger, cutting the fleshy tip. "Shit!" she muttered, her hand recoiling out of the water. Blood ran down her finger and across her palm. She paused, a slow smile, a shake of the head. A bandage for her finger, but there was obviously nothing to be done about her mouth.