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Toy Review: Topsy Turvy

23 Sep

This is a review of the Topsy Turvy by Doc Johnson, provided for review for Eden Fantasy. If you choose to not know far more about my sex life than necessary, click here to learn something new and cool. Otherwise, read on.

Also, I’m eating candy corn while I write this, so if it gets really odd, blame the sugar. Not me.

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Toy Review: Tommy Gunn Realistic Dildo

11 Aug

This is a review of the Tommy Gunn Dildo, generously provided by Eden Fantasy for review. As per usual, I am providing an escape valve for you-this post may veer on the TMI for some eyes, so feel free to run away and hang out HERE for a little while.

You’ve been warned.

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Your Kiss? How about The Kissa?

16 Apr

I’ll admit it. I’m a bit of a drool hound for glass sex toys. I mean, look at this! Since companies started pushing them, I’ve wanted a glass dildo. They’re so pretty, and simple and they don’t have that smell.

You know what I’m talking about.

So when the chance came up to review the Kissa, I was totally game, since Eden Fantasy also has such a fantastic selection of glass toys.  The Kissa is a new vibrator from EdenFantasy, and I let out a little “squee!” when they said I could try it out.

The Lowdown:

www.edenfantasy.comOh sweet lord she’s purty.

She’s glass, 6 inches, 4.5 of which are insert-able. Personally, I would have preferred longer, say 8 inches. But then, I’m tall and I have short arms.

The Kissa is very light, at 0.4lbs  your arms aren’t going to fall off or anything using it, but not as tiny as a pocket rocket if you like a little more in your hand. Noise wise-really not too bad. The vibrations aren’t loud enough to rock the bed or anything-like any vibe it can get loud when up against something, but it’s fairly quiet. Instead of the usual screw cap to change the speed, it has a handy little button to cycle through the 3 levels. However, these levels don’t go from lullaby to screaming meanie! like some. I liked this-my clit didn’t burn out in seconds. But if you need something a little stronger to get you up the mountain, The Kissa may not work for you.

This toy is highly textured, so not a personal choice for insertion. However, if you do like a lot going on that way, this is totally for you. Being glass, temperature play is highly recommended, and lube makes a world of difference. And it’s hypo-allergenic, so for anyone who has problems with certain materials-this would be perfect.

It’s easy to clean with soap and water-make sure to pay attention where the cap screws in for fluids. After one use I could foresee a buildup if you aren’t as careful about clean up as some-remember to clean the thread while removing the battery for storage. The nubbies on the tip, while fun, can be a pain to clean if you wait long enough for anything to dry. So perhaps, keep an extra toothbrush handy?

The Kissa comes with a handy pouch-which is great on two fronts. It keeps it from banging around the drawer, AND is convinient if you have kids like mine who root THROUGH the drawer and then ask their father why Mommy has handcuffs.

Yes. This happened. Apparently the pink Brontosaurus is into bondage too.

The Short Version

Would I buy it? Hells yes. At 29.99, it’s a great intro to glass toys, and a pretty great midrange vibrator. So I totally recommend this little lady. (and yes, I’m a girl, she’s pretty. I dig that.)

The Kissa was provided for review by Eden Fantasy, and my lady parts are indebted to them. 🙂

Don’t waste yourself in rejection, nor bark against the bad, but chant the beauty of the good.

15 Jul



On buses, walking, waiting, anywhere that a child slithers into my side, a woman will smile that wistful smile, one of waiting or wanting, and stare at the three of us. I can always feel the eyes on me, the same I cast on the unknowing 15 year olds when they walk past me, their hips free of their futures, their shoulders strong and dreaming.

Sometimes, like yesterday, we’ll rise to leave, to make our transfer or get the groceries and a smooth hand will reach for me, briefly hold my gaze and arm.

“Your daughters are beautiful.” she’ll whisper, almost to herself, a secret of gold on her tongue. She’ll smile at me sadly as we walk away, my hands gripping each child warmly.


These women, they are so very right.

There are days when everything is so very hard, where I am tired, or lonely, or just plain done with small creatures who talk and touch and harass and otherwise get thisclosetome all day long. I have to force myself to step back and marvel at how Vivian is so utterly curious with everything, so responsible and such an old soul. Or how Rosalyn can create a new little world in seconds using only the two ratty sticks she carries and the back of a coloring book. If I stop fretting and fluttering, and just breathe, I can see them, the women who will one day play chess for hours together, instead of arguing about the set up as they are this very minute.

I see them as beautiful women then. I see them strong, and brilliant, and talented and above all happy. Their beauty, today, comes from the light which bursts from them, from smiles and grinning eyes, from the peace we feel with each other, when I relax and settle into them, and allow today, as well as tomorrow, to nourish me.

Their happiness keeps me found, solid and firm as they ready themselves to fly. The beauty and strength they project, lights my way as well as their own.



25 Feb

My new(ish) friend Emma is one of the coolest, articulate, intelligent teenagers I’ve run into in the last, oh, I dunno, 20 years or so. (snark) If you’re not reading her, you should be-she’s at Errant Sock, and she’s damn cool. Read her latest post if you don’t trust me on this. I was not this smart at her age. It’s unnatural. I imagine she gets accused of being a middle age wife in Idaho a fair bit. 😛

ANYway, I did have a point.

My point is that Emma is in a competition, one where she could possibly win a 20k scholarship and be named sweet diggity dog something I’m too old to understand.

The real point is-I want to help her win. She’s the girl I want my girls to grow into-a smart woman already at the age if 15 (15, right Emma? I miss things sometimes) She’s the kind of person we need more of.

So what YOU can do is go HERE, register (takes on like, 2 minutes) and vote for Emma Saraff.

VOTE! She could be a fricken rocket scientist or finally find the cure for asshole. And wouldn’t THAT be nice.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

16 Feb

 Diane E. Levin and Jean Kilbourne’s So Sexy So Soon seeks to address this very type of childhood experience: a complete lack of awareness about sex and reproduction coupled with a media-fed understanding of sexiness – that is, as one young girl in the book explains, getting boys to chase you and try to kiss you – that revolves around emulating TV characters and buying as many products as possible.

There’s a great book review of So Sexy So Soon at Feministe-please, go read.

But it got me to thinking.

How much time can we, as parents and mothers, spend blaming the media, the western world, capitalism, Walmart, etc, before we also realize the true impact we have on our daughters?

I firmly believe in openness, to the point of irritation I imagine. Vivian telling me that “that place” feels good when she touches it-that filled me with pride. Pride that she was able to say this to me with no fear or pretense, and that she took such obvious joy in herself. Pride that I’m starting to create a woman who isn’t afraid of herself, knows where all the proper things are, and just exists in this manner.

Because I disagree that this is fully the fault of what Mattel is selling this season, or that sitcoms have taken things too far. I disagree that it’s those damn music videos, or those stars that kids want to emulate. Not fully.

Cues are taken from parents.

How many of us were raised in a don’t ask, don’t tell sort of environment, where the most sex education you received was 2 weeks in Grade 5, and maybe a book left covertly on a counter top by your mother? How many women can’t bring themselves to call a vulva a vulva, or even know that their vagina is only on the inside? How many women can’t bring themselves to orgasm, or help their partner to do so? How many women blush at the thought of talking about all of this? How many of us learned, early on from our parents, that our hands can be dirtied so easily?

When I was Vivian’s age, I liked to rock on a specific doll-I remember, it was a pink stuffy with one of those plastic kewpie doll faces on it. It made me feel good-happy, in touch with myself, like a sun rising, so I wanted to tell my mother. I showed her.

She didn’t hit me. Instead, she looked completely horrified, and I never saw that doll again. Standing in the hallway, my mother stared at me, and held her hand out. I handed it over, cried, and stumbled back to my room, confused.

Later, a few years perhaps, when my neighbour molested me, I remember feeling like I had no control over my body, that it never belonged to me, and I should submit. I could never tell my mother-it would be my fault. I would be punished, and would still not know what was mine in terms of my body. For years I dreamed of being abused by conveyor lines of robots, people. Just my lying there, at the whim of others.

It was my mother’s responsibility to teach my about my body, about myself. It was her responsibility to teach me that there is no shame in acknowledging my humanity in this way, in embracing my sexuality, even at that young of an age.

Make no mistake-we are sexual creatures the day we are born. Which is why as parents we need to step it up right off the bat, in the most normal way, as if explaining how to make bread or why you have an elbow. Blaming media and society for one’s child wanting to dress like a Bratz doll or a 13 year old knocking up a girl-it’s a cop out. It’s easy to say “The school never taught it!” or that “Miley Cyrus made her dress that way!” and turn the other way.

Much more difficult to raise your children with appropriate sexual values and mores, to have those conversations that at times, are less than easy.

Being sexual is part of who we are-and it always has been. We now treat even into mid-twenties like teenagers, so why is it so strange that a seven year old starts to act as they might? Why is starting the mating dance at 12 so odd? What if, biologically, that’s where the drive can start for some. I began menstruating about then-if I can bear children, if I am considered a woman, physically, why can’t society, or parents be bothered to?

I may not necessarily agree with a pre-teen acting out in any way sexually-but I’m raising my daughters with the knowledge to make responsible choices, when appropriate. Will I always win? No, not with two daughters. But I refuse to use the cop-out that the world around me has more bearing on how my daughters come to their womanhood than I do.

It took me years to come to grips with my sexuality, having children being the last nail in that particular coffin. I don’t want that for them. Our bodies are wonderful, beautiful things, and by telling our daughters on what’s bad, and horrible and not allowed because they’re too young/not ready/just can’t only serves to increase the need and make it more attractive.

Refusing to speak to your children out of embarrassment, or fear-to me, that’s worse than all the Bratz dolls and belly tops. Because our parents are our guides, for good or ill. And we do ourselves a grave disservice by leaving our daughters out to dry.

Tresspassers William

28 Nov

Don’t know why….digging the sappy sad alt-country/folk shit lately. This song is just lovely, squishes all the right parts to the heart.



Tina Fey is God.

14 Sep

I totally forgot this was on last night…and I should have stayed awake to watch it…


“Given the nature of life, there may be no security, but only adventure.”

17 Aug

We’re in the grocery store, her and I, on a chaotic Saturday full of grocery tourists and genuinely harried couples and parents. Here and there a baby screams-not the “I’m hungry” cry but the “FUCK YOU I WANT OUT NOW!” cry which was the sole reason I NEVER took my children to the grocery store as infants. The screaming continues sporadically in the produce section, likely a mother unable to get out otherwise, and I cringe in sympathy. Crying doesn’t bother me anymore-it just makes me want to take the child so the parents can just get their shit done.

Of course, hearing the yuppie parents of one single, quiet maybe 2 year old boy explain in perfect enunciation that “We aren’t going to squish the bread today!” made me walk quickly away laughing. What 2 year old WON’T squish the bread? It’s fun! I don’t bother making any type of contact since I do know the type of parents-they won’t acknowledge me, they won’t exchange pithy jokes and comments. And this rings true later when we go to the cash behind them, and my comments with Vivian about the toy the little boy is lucky to get are ignored. Perhaps they’re busy, perhaps they’re deaf, but right then, rude was rude. I remind myself they could be many things going on, and gee he’s pretty darn cute.

I’m not the center of the universe.

Vivian, now used to grocery shopping, has morphed into the child we know and love from Saturday morning cartoons:

“Can I have this?”

“I want this. Can I have it?”

“It’s got SCOOBY DOO ON IT! I need it!”

“Please? Please?”

The entire trip involves me saying NO every 4.2 seconds. Reminding myself why I do prefer to do this alone.

But then it’s not as fun. She comes around the corner with a stack of beer cups held to her eyes like goggles, and I laugh and giggle and block the aisle. She walks into a display while doing this, and it’s all I can do to not fall down I’m laughing so hard. I can feel the soft glow of other people smiling as my world spirals to just Vivian and myself, our eyes and laughter. I forget about the asks and remember my fantastical little girl who creates such wonder and delight around her.

“Back to juice boxes.” I snigger.

I give her a little speech on how we’re gonna get a second Klean Kanteen for school, and this is just for now. She’s not paying attention, and I wonder if the speech was for her, or the people around her. She randomly chooses some sugar laden box, and we move on.

It hits me. I am buying school lunches.

In 2 weeks, give or take, she starts school. And most of me, mainly my ears, are ok with this. She’s growing up, she’s FIVE (holyshitwheredidthoseyearsgo?) and I need to back off. I let her run ahead, I let her lag behind. I trust her to make small decisions. It’s time to start pulling back. But holding juice boxes, granola bars, Joe Louis’ in my hands, I wanted to be sad. My mother stood there once, trying to decide what was best for lunch, what was needed, what I would eat out of sight. She held those boxes, reading. She imagined a life emptied, for a time, of her daughter.

Connection with a long dead mother in a grocery store. I felt her then, in front of plastic fruit snacks. I felt her indecision, her pride, her love, such warm love, for me, and for her granddaughter, for the woman she’d one day be. I felt the conflict of that first day, of letting go of your baby. I felt that it was ok to feel this-to want to hold closer than skin and push out, all at once. That this was the least of my trials in the years ahead.

We got home and I realized I forgot garbage bags, cat food, cheese. But I held something much sweeter to my chest.

“If you concentrate on finding what is good in every situation, you will discover that your life will suddenly be filled with gratitude, a feeling that nurtures the soul. “

14 Aug

There’s a new me growing, and I like her.

She’s kinder. She’s happier. She more willing to open her eyes and see past what presents.

She’s talks to herself nicer. She reminds patience, nudges herself that she doesn’t know the book unless she’s read it.

She talks to people. She wants to know them.

She notices things.


The last week or so of my life has been, with the exception of one week when I was younger, the hardest of my life. I can’t even begin to describe the agony, of all of it.

Then something strange occurred.

All of you stood up, and wrapped me in your support. Not agreement, not consent. But strength. A core I could fall back into slightly, and be supported by.

You helped me remember that people aren’t bad. That sometimes strength is letting go, allowing others to be strong for you. You helped me look inside myself and realize that hey, I like me, or rather that there is a person there worth liking, and loving. That I mattered.

I cannot thank you for this, not in any way that is meaningful. I feel that I have birthed myself again, and all of you have been my doulas, my protectors. The glow I have held inside me, my firelight, is filled by the light that all of you sent to me, unasked, unexpectedly.

I feel so proud to know each and every one of you, my friends, some of you I’ve never even met, voices I’ve never truly heard. But where it matters, how it matters, you are friends.

I am blessed to have this in my life, and it warms me even as I sit here.

So thank you. Know that each of you have made a difference this week, and your spirits, your voices, are each a tiny piece of a new beginning for me. And I delight in this.

You make me better.

Songs I can’t stop singing, thanks to Last FM

4 Aug

It’s a rainy Monday after all. Happy New Brunswick Day!


Almost Lover: A Fine Frenzy (Video is kinda lame, love the song)


Dear Miami: Roisin Murphy


On Call: Kings of Leon


In The Desert: Architects


Forgot One (Fan video-sorry-only one available)

Horse & I: Bat for Lashes

Something awesome this way comes…

24 Jul

Blown away. I am just absolutely in awe of this person’s writing.


A Burning Science Question

14 Jul

Since many of you have more edumacation than me….

Vivian LOVES science. LOVES IT. As in sits enthralled as I read to her about subatomic particles loves it. (and you have NO idea how freaking AWESOME I think this is…)

I was out today buying some much needed over the shoulder boulder holders (and hey, Sears! The woman ACTUALLY made eye contact and waited on me, despite measuring me wrong. Apparently we don’t ask the fatties to take their shirts off so we can get an accurate measurement) when I walked past the bin of useless and/or creepy books. There sat “The Book of Science”.

6.98 is a price I will pay, especially for a book that speaks at a level they can understand, covers most basic scientific principals and has simple experiments at the back.

I’m flipping through it while waiting for the bus and notice something. All the little boxes talking about important scientists and their discoveries-ALL OF THEM ARE MEN.

Nothing against you boys, but I’m raising girls.

So while I can spend time on Wikipedia tomorrow looking for the few that will spring to mind, I’d love to hear suggestions for other female scientists, chemists, physicists, etc. I already warned Vivian that there are no women in that book, and we’ll have to learn about them elsewhere-I just need a little help with the elsewhere.

ETA: I’ve been asked if I truly think that gender matters. Yes, and no. I believe many women, and girls can go farther with female rolemodels presented. I think many of us grew up knowing little about women in science and math, correcting this deficit as we aged. I want my girls to be able to name more women than men. I think it’s also important so we can point out the effect marriage and motherhood once had, and still can have on WOMEN, and not men. I want them prepared to be adaptable creatures. I want them to be prepared for the fact that it might be harder. And that it might also be cooler.

I didn’t grow up with the knowledge that women could do all those things. It would have been nice to have seen a female face staring back from any numbers of the books I read. Imagine starting out knowing that women and men ARE equals, that both have accomplished so much and that gender doesn’t matter.


Our kids are normal. Really.

13 Jul

So this weekend we descended on Hannah’s household.

I’m fairly sure of two things. 1, if they were unsure about stopping at 2 kids, they’re REAL sure now and 2, they have Nova Scotia on high alert for when we enter the province.

My children don’t socialize much. Like, at all. And they certainly don’t get to play with cute little boys who like Cars and trains. And they NEVER get to have sleepovers.

In a nutshell, my children were on their Rambo setting-loud, overpowering and smelly. And I could see the look in the eyes of two parents who already don’t sleep much.

“Dear lord, what have we let into our house.”

I know that my kids are fairly intense little creatures. They play hard, and push push push. As someone trying to raise women who won’t take any shit, I likely encourage that a fair bit. And they aren’t usually around other children or parents. I don’t usually have to worry about moderating things. Nor do I realize what little shits they can be until I step back and look through the eyes of other parents.

But after the 3rd time of someone having to yell after my monkey child to stop her from leaping 8 feet, you realize that your desire to raise a free spirited willful woman may be working a little better than planned. When the little boy comes out crying because Vivian has ordered him out of his own room and into the kitchen, you realize that you don’t really have much to worry about, aside from a vague worry about something like the Jonestown Massacre occurring under the hands of one of my children.

New situations tend to bring out the most frenetic and crazed behaviour in my children. Some kids get shy. Mine ask “Are we going to meet Hannah Montana?” They are genuinely loving, caring, curious little girls.

They are also, many times, irritating, yappy, ulcer inducing little monsters.

I love them either way, it’s just a lot to take suddenly, especially if the cute ball of a baby is coughing and unhappy and wanting take out constantly.

Hannah? Next time, you guys come here so Issac can seek and destroy in their room. 🙂

Photo taken by H.R.H of the Camera, SweetSalty Kate who dropped by in the morning…anyone who doesn’t think I’m in for it in about 10 years is blind or crazy.


10 Jun

Love these guys, as does Vivian. I dithered about seeing them live when they were here in the Armpit, didn’t go. Regret, sigh.

Never Meant Any Harm: The Golden Dogs

AND they’re Canadian. Do you really need any more reasons to buy their albums?

Construction Worker: The Golden Dogs

Someone done gone done a nice thing…

7 Jun

and I forgot to tell you all about it.

Gabriel received a PS3 as a gift. I expressed my envy and desire.

“Hey” he said “Want my PS2? It’s not perfect, but you can have it…and the games.”

um. ok.

Totally awesome thing to do. I get it a little while later, and my Dad keeps repeating “He just SENT this to you, for no reason?”

I told him it’s my sparkling personality. He didn’t buy it.

Gabe, I meant to write this for awhile, and true to form, kept forgetting. This was totally awesome of you to do, and we love it. Although Manhunt creeps me out.

I was really touched at the gesture. Thank you. 🙂


1 Jun

I don’t believe in luck. I believe in hard work, perseverance, dedication, harmony. Somedays, I don’t believe that happiness is a simple thing-an equation of love and contentment, divided by the lives we live.

Somedays, I don’t care. I just look ahead, and see my life, and smile.



Days like these….everything just makes sense.

Living Color

22 May

In my head, they all merge into one woman. Graceful, creative, caring-they are everywoman-or perhaps the idealization of her. They speak with one soft lyrical voice, laugh with wisdom and ache with sadness.

I rapidly page through all of them, pausing to evaluate, lips twisted in thought.

The girl I wanted to hate, before, whose beauty and talent far surpass my own, who seemed to have it all, but more than I could dream, simple loves, quiet content and adventure. Then came the rabbit hole, and then this past weekend, when she became real to me, flesh and feeling and raw seething. She glowed though, even if she thought she didn’t, with an expectation, a knowing even she might just be ignorant of. Something burbles for her. I see her in green, for growth.

Someone else, the age my mother was at death, exactly, but different, easing only lately into motherhood, far enough removed from my past, but maybe not quite enough. Sharp edges and primary colors-simplicity of thought and singlemindedness-the solid stance of someone who knows exactly who she is. I see her in red, and smile.

In an obnoxiously upholstered arm chair sits yet another woman, angles corrected and purposefully maintained. A place for everything and everything in it’s place, well researched, well spoken. A laugh that fills the house and your heart-a woman you’ve known time and time again, and trust, implicitly,without question. You’re at ease with her. Perhaps you are her. Jests are easily found, yet seldom meant. Her eyes dance. She’s striped in reds and yellows, the duskier versions, the muted, vastly more interesting ones.

Another, I recognize before meeting as a soul I’ve known before, an immediate kinship, an exhaled breath saying “oh thank the lord you’re here.” We don’t recall this feeling, or why it stretches between us, but we don’t mistake it for anything other than friendship. She has an easy laugh and silky voice you could listen for until slumber, a simple motherhood I envy, finger permanently crooked in a tiny baby mouth. She’s coated in purple, tangy grape purples.

More pattern, more riots of color sits a woman I hardly know, a woman bearing more substance than I. A grey, the grey of possibility and clearing. A pause.

Red hair, the color of melon and sweet flesh, a color that brings my memory back many years to a boy who fascinated, and I find myself feeling yet again enthralled with a voice and an eye that sees what many do not, a life that calls foul on my excuses of no time, no chance to do the things I feel prone to do. She lives-she really lives, the joy of her son flowing clear through her and onto all of us. She’s no single color, no steady influence but a jumble, a rainbow, a can of paint half stirred. In my mind, her head is thrown back, crowing, Peter Pan….

Delicate neck, delicate wrists and scarves and all those things this 15 year old drama student strived for but didn’t have the bone structure for. Delicate like spider web though-deceiving and free, awaiting. She is bigger than herself, bigger than the room-her smile so simple and yet like a lighthouse, a beacon we crave. Not her approval-her happiness. She is earthy brown, green, the moss beneath our feet balancing us and cradling our heads. Her sorrows countered by living. I see her long brown hair, and grin.

One last, one quiet, one ponderous and questioning, watching. I clawed myself back and waited, unsure, curious, yet not. Then she opened, and I felt myself smile quietly at finding a truly interesting person, finding someone I wanted to ask questions of, someone who seemed new and eternal all at once. She was blacks and greys for me, but in the simplest and best of ways. A sharp laugh, a sharp wit, all edges but not painful.

In many ways, we’ve all suffered our losses, then, or now. Yet when coming together, the loudest sounds heard were laughter, the laughter of being understood, the laughter of being together, of having nothing to prove and no where to be. Even the soft sad moments have their value, memories and actions borne aloft and aloud for the first time ever or the first time in 20 years. There is healing to acknowledgement. There is healing to a circle of women, even if they hover on the dessert tray.

I am not known as someone who usually finds much value in the company of other women. But last weekend, I felt so much at home that it scared me more than the likely haunted bathroom in my room. It felt real-it felt like I was doing something real for the first time in years.

Wandering through shops full of incredible soul swelling pieces of art that spoke on that other level, that ethereal level-I felt peaceful and anxious and happy all at one time. I felt peace. I didn’t feel crazy or mannish or fat or annoying. I felt normal.

And what a gift that is.

I saw all of you in colors ladies, as part of an ever changing rainbow of life and personality, each as valid and pointed as the last. Even if I couldn’t keep my mouth shut half the time, and kept saying stupid shit, I felt enveloped and cared for in a way I haven’t felt in many years.

And I thank you.


If all else fails, color their world.

16 May


Most mornings around here are hurried, irritated moments. I don’t rise early-I tend to stay in bed as long as possible, since I never shower in the morning (today being an exception so I don’t gross Mad out of the car). Hurrying to get dressed, eat, create a lunch etc etc with a three year old doing her best autistic imitation is very….charming to say the least, and generally leaves me in a foul mood. So much so that I’m looking forward to waking at 6:30 again in the hopes of sneaking out of the house. The fan we leave on in their room is for our benefit more than theirs after all.

This morning, in the interests of peace, no screaming and no repeat of yesterdays “yes I want eggs, actually no, I don’t, I want Krispies and I just dumped all the eggs in the garbage” I offered pancakes-something that takes just a little too much time and brainpower most mornings. I make them from scratch after all-and yes, it’s better this way, and no, it’s not that much harder. I wouldn’t have the brain for Aunt Jemima most days.

Rosalyn started howling “I want dem cowored!!” and I had no idea what the hell she meant until Vivian translated gibberish into “She wants them colored.

Ah. Food coloring. My friend.

It’s amazing that 3 drops of blue food coloring can make everything right in a preschooler’s world. A few pink drops in the milk makes it even better, and I feel a lot calmer than I do most mornings.

Although not having to go to work kinda helps too. 🙂


So in a few hours, I am off to meet a fantastic group of women who blog. I’m not that anxious-sorta nervous, but excited to have a much needed weekend to clear my raging brain, and to meet some lovely ladies I’ve become so warmly acquainted with. My father said many warm things about Chester as well, so I look forward to that too. Something new-always a favorite.

So cheers for the long weekend folks (in Canada at least). It’s May 2-4-have a beer for me!

skimming the stream of days

6 May

I get so busy sometimes that it’s hard to breathe, hard to stop and remember that it’s a beautiful day outside and the sun is shining and the leaves are finally stretching their arms and legs out to me. I get so busy with the mundane, the reports and the pivots, the diapers and the dinners. So many variables, until you round the corner near the school, and hear the sounds of hundreds of frogs, echoing across the neighbourhood, their love songs not to Alfred, but to each other, to spring, to the first morning of a hundred such mornings, foggy and musty and covered in wet tears of happy and warmth.


We circle the pond, carefully, searching for these frogs, my feet staggering near the edge, remembering far too many incidents that ruined far too many pairs of new shoes, that swamp smell never leaving them. I mutter about bringing garbage bags next time, wondering why the school never cleaned, removing at least the plastic if not the frothy scum on the water. I wonder if the frogs have multiple eyes or legs. I wonder why people can’t clean up their own mess, ever it seems. The hockey ball is forgivable-the 3 empty jugs of laundry soap-not so much.

We find no frogs-I find a tree. A tree that’s new and clean and gleaming in the early evening twilight. It’s nubby and round and altogether reminiscent of being a little girl. New and rounded on the edges. I’m fascinated by it, the greenery, the almostness of it, teetering. Like it was holding it’s breath.

We walk home, busy life forgotten, to do lists stored in outlook, laundry mostly done. The girls slow as we near the house, streetlight by streetlight appearing and the sun falls farther in the sky.  Rosalyn asks for what may have been the last time ever “See Mommy?” andI hold her hand tighter, feel her silky cool fingers wrap around mine as Vivian dances in the night with her father.

It’s all so nubby and new.

(Title taken from Bewitched Playground by David Rivard)