What's Going On

My world, and the people in it, got horrible news this week.

A friend and co-worker's 6-day old baby died yesterday.

How do I write that without sounding as though I am telling someone else's news; exploiting a tragic situation?

I don't know. This is the only place I will make it about me, because this is not about me. But my grief is real, and great, and it compells me to write, as surely as anything that I can't comprehend makes me want to write. And this is incomprehensible.

And I could write the longest post in the world, and it still wouldn't make this make sense.

My thoughts, my heart, my prayers and my tears go out to my friend and her family.



Flesh From Bone

My skirt is sticking to the front of my tights
As determinedly as my heart is stuck in my throat
As tightly as you grasp my back in your fists
As we walk up the stairs in the night.

The words on the page are only a whisper
The crack in my voice barely gives up the truth
Salvation, your baby-sweet breath on my neck
As the moon lights our way down the hall.

Eyes red and rimmed as I sing you to sleep
Tracing round cheek, pursed lip, soft skin
Willing my love to shield you from pain
As we wait for a new day to dawn.

Knowing a new day will dawn.



No, this is not my post

Hello lovelies,

Haven't stopped by in almost two weeks, so I thought I better pop over and make sure the pipes haven't frozen and burst or something.

The issue right now, is not that I have nothing to blog about, but maybe too much. Nothing earth-shattering; lots of ideas whose seeds are germinating, but I'm being a lousy thought gardener. I'll get out the spade and hose soon.

In the meantime, I've been spending my laughably few free moments cross-stitching, because, although I play a 34 year old mother of two small things, in reality I am a 70 year old gramma with a decent handle on pop culture.

I can't even post pictures to prove that I've been spending my time eating chips and watching tv creating beautiful things, because all of my projects of late have been gifts that I have not yet given to people that may or may not read this blog.

Although, this weekend I didn't really do much cross-stitching at all. I slept 12 hours on Friday night, relieved my stress with a tiny bit of retail therapy on Saturday, saw a REALLY great play Saturday night (yeah NoMo! Beautiful and talented, that lady), and had friends over on Sunday.

I spent a lot of time cooking this weekend: made beef stroganoff on Saturday night, (we don't eat a lot of red meat, but I'm worried about my children's iron stores. They're a bit pale. Maybe they're just Protestant. I can't tell.) peanut-butter rice krispie squares and a decent but mushy slow-cooker french toast casserole for our company on Sunday, and salmon patties with sweet potato fries and steamed veggies for dinner Sunday night.

I swear, if I could just spend my days cooking, crafting, and cuddling my babies, I'd be the happiest 70 year old granny in the world. Le't's work together to make this happen, people.


X This

You know, I’ve never been one to jump on a trend, but I think that, stylistically, I can hold my own. Time, sleeplessness and budget notwithstanding, I think that, in writing as well as dress, I can kind of, almost, keep pace with what the kids think is cool (or, did last year).

So, imagine my surprise, when, thanks to some lovely ladies in whose company I delightfully found myself last night, I realized that I had TOTALLY missed the boat on something hot.

I was totally schooled. And like, seriously, this was remedial shit, apparently.

Did you know – did you KNOW – that nobody signs off with ‘xo’ anymore?

Dude, it’s just ‘x’ now.

x – small x.

No pussy ‘o’ holding x’s hand, definitely no lame-ass ‘xoxo’ and – trust me on this one, folks – absofuckinglutely not a (((HUGS))).


My goddamn standard sign-off has been a sincere, ‘xok’ forever, and I’m only NOW discovering that I make myself look like your granny has been responding to all of your emails?

Seriously, do you know how crushed I am to learn that, in the trendmaking world of blog-comment sign-off, I am about as cool as someone who spends their time furthering the status and innovation of blog comment sign off getting fat for publicity.

That’s it. From now on, it’s xk.


That’s kisses to you, motherhuggers.



Things Are Looking Up(chuck)

Unfortunately, the sick that seems to be ravaging Southern Ontario did not pass over casa kgirl. I even smeared lamb's blood on the door and set out a kiddush cup full of red wine for Elijah, but still, pukefest aught-nine found us. I thought I was the chosen people - what gives?

Ok, now that I've tempted a good smiting, I can tell you that fortunately, the pukefest has subsided, all adults are back in the land of the working living, and all tiny people are happy, and happily, not barfing all over my wool couch. Yeah, one more to add to the joy of having two children? Double the barf! Luckily, they were not barfing in tandem, and Bee kindly handled the midnight - 6am shift, while Dove covered the daylight hours.

Poor little pukers. That look they get, right before the shit hits the fan barf hits the floor? Breaks my heart. But not for long, as that look also signals the need to ricochet them away from my face, my pillow, the couch or the cat as necessary.

I was also left feeling queasy, and it wasn't just because I was the post-hurl clean-up crew. But, I was the least queasy of the bunch, so I dutifully made toast, tea and runs to the drugstore as needed. And once my brood was back in the pink, I stopped forcing electrolytes and vitamin C on them, and went back to just forcing healthy slow cooker meals on them. Their white cells will thank me later. Hopefully the plague has retreated for the season, and we can go on with the being healthy and all that. Germs, be gone. Lord knows I loves me a good exodus story.

You too can force healthy food upon your brood. Get the recipe here.



Spelling Bee

I placed a new picture on my desk at work; it is one that Bee made for me last night, and I can’t stop looking at it. It is abstract; she used her big, fat paint pens, and the bright colours somehow melded together to emulate, almost perfectly, a pattern I recognize from a tie-dyed sarong I wore on the beach in Dahab. It’s beautiful, but what I am having trouble taking my eyes off of, is her name printed at the bottom of the page.

Utterly recognizable, this is not the signature of my former shaky-handed toddler scribe; the letters that make up her name are evenly sized and evenly spaced, barely overlapping. Unlike writing attempts of the immediate past where the letters of her name were, although printed in correct succession, dotted across the page like so many artistic embellishments, the name printed on this picture is, for I believe the first time, laid out in a line.

The letters themselves look animated, exaggerated; unintentionally serif at the hand of their serious, intent author. In the middle of her name, I can hear a conversation – the one where my daughter asks my husband to write the S, which she will then copy. I can see my husband putting his hand over my daughter’s, guiding the pen through the smooth curves, teaching her the motion of this trickiest of letters. And then the evidence of Bee’s determination, her own attempt indelled next to their shared example.
It looks like all of Bee’s printed tries at the letter S – like a long, thin number 3.

Bee used to pronounce her name wrong. She called herself Sha-ha, which is like a weird pig-Latin hybrid of the moniker I bestowed upon her. I never corrected Sha-ha on her pronunciation, and loved it when she would push away my attempts to help her do something, looking me squarely in the eye and proclaiming, ‘Sha-ha do it!’

I can feel Bee’s resolve to print a proper S, and I know she will practice until the motion is instinctual, the symbol, correct. But I will miss seeing her little 3 where an S should be, and as I look at her name printed on the picture she made just for me, the rotund, undeniably legible S dwarfing the thin, unbalanced 3, I can see that a child’s natural, confident expertise will soon overshadow a toddler’s early, unsure venture. It is inevitable, of course: my child will soon emerge, the toddler remaining only in painted pictures and swooping signatures, and I will marvel and shed my share of quiet tears, and wonder how this happens so damn quickly, knowing that it is happening, so damn quickly.

The writing, undoubtedly, is on the wall.