Drink your greens but make them purple

Until recently, I had never really seen food as a means to an end. The world has so many delicious food combinations to enjoy. I couldn't imagine throwing away the chance for a fabulous meal from this cornucopia just for the purpose of sustenance (says the woman who used to eat popcorn for dinner). Enter motherhood and the tune changes. All of a sudden, meals become more of prerequisite for basic function rather than an enjoyable taste experience.

Take breakfast, for example. They say people are inclined to eat the same thing for breakfast every day, in part because it means reserving brain power for things like walking upright and being civil to your partner. For me, it also used to be incentive to get out of bed. What better reason to shower and get dressed than for the reward of peanut butter oozing all over a toasted english muffin?

Surprisingly, the promise of liquid salad has never offered the level of motivation. But time, reality, and countless elimination diets have a funny way of shifting your perspective. As I was weighing the desire for fitness, convenience, and the ability to survive a day with children, the green smoothie weaselled its way into my routine.

According to my research, there are at least a million recipes for green smoothies. About 999,992 of them start with an entire banana. In my mind, there’s a 20 second window during which a banana is suitably edible and by the time you’re done peeling it, those 20 seconds are up. Other options included tofu (don't get me started) or recipes that aim to include an army of powders, seeds and potions. I don’t have the patience to open that many containers before 7am. Grass-fed collagen be damned.

So I made up my own. It remains quite simple and remarkably tasty. The almond milk adds some creaminess to the mix. The beet crystals give it a hint of sweetness and a beautiful colour. My three-year-old asked to taste it—the guy who picks vegetables out of vegetable soup—and he actually liked it. He is my litmus test for palatability. If he will eat it, it has to be good. Mind you, he also likes mustard on macaroni and cheese, so maybe I'm off on my assessment of his sophisticated palate. 

I've been drinking this for a few weeks, and now find myself waking up favourably to the idea of a liquid breakfast. The other bonus is that it forces me to drink at least some water, something I have been known to eschew.

The Not-Green Green Smoothie 2 cups of kale (off the stem - no one’s body needs to fight that demon) 1/3 cup frozen sliced strawberries 1/4 cup frozen raspberries 1 tbsp chia seeds 1 tbsp beet crystals 1.5 tbsp pumpkin seed protein powder* Splash of vanilla Shake of cinnamon Almond milk** Water, depending on desired thickness and the willingness of your blender

Do I need to tell you to put all this stuff in a a Vitamix? I tried putting it in the Magic Bullet and all I got was a watery mess of chopped kale. I didn’t think I had issues with texture until that vile concoction landed on my tongue.

*This is the simplest of protein powders. It doesn’t have much of an imposing flavour and it delivers 9.5 grams of protein and 1 gram of fat in a 55 calorie serving.

**I like Califia and I just noticed they have a Toasted Coconut Almond Milk flavour that I might just have to go crazy over. I just have to find a store that stocks it since they don’t ship to Canada. Sad face.

Keep calm and party on

I was freaking out a little last week. By a little, of course, I mean a lot. I could list any number of possible reasons— birthday parties, Father’s Day, the 104 unread emails in my inbox—but there was an even more pressing issue on my mind: Neighbour Day.

Neighbour Day is an annual celebration of neighbourliness where Calgarians are encouraged to come out of their houses and interact with the other humans who live nearby. The city started it a few years ago to commemorate how compassionate we all were after the 2013 floods. To sweeten the deal, they waive the fee for Neighbour Day block party permits. Bring on the open alcohol!

Generally, I like to let the social aspects of life unfurl as the universe intends—or maybe I’m just lazy and I can’t be bothered to influence the cosmos—but when I heard about this block party idea, I decided to throw my disorganization tendencies to the wind. I had visions of children frolicking, adults guffawing, balloons, an ice cream truck, firefighters (for the kids, of course), a circus. I figure this all must have come about during a period of reduced cognitive function for me, though that basically describes motherhood so far so it's hard to pin point.

Despite my amateur planning skills, last year’s party was great fun. We got a decent turn out, but it was largely the core group of neighbours who already knew each other that ended up hanging out until 2am. I wanted this year to be even better, but I had no idea how to make that happen. I felt immense self-imposed pressure to have all the cards lined up in advance. While I’m okay with leaving my own social life to chance, I didn’t think that was a good strategy for a group of 40-50 near-strangers who were being asked to hang out with each other for six hours.

Then, a few weeks ago, a lesson presented itself. Some of the dads held an informal barbecue competition. There was much talk of cuts, sauces, rubs, etc. The women steered clear. I think we were all just happy to have someone else plan and execute a neighbourly get-together. But an hour before the time of judgement, we started to ask questions: Where would we meet? Were there side dishes (like, I don’t know, vegetables)? Come to think of it, were there dishes?

Blank stares.

My better half was even surprised to learn that I was planning to serve some of this carnivore’s delight to our children for dinner. I think he was surprised to learn that any of us were planning to eat it for dinner! And yet, by some miracle (a.k.a. the women), it all came together. 

I tried desperately to keep that in mind as the days leading up to the block party flew by at a remarkable pace, taking my sanity with them. Somehow, it would all work out. People would still have fun if I didn’t rent a massive bouncy castle or arrange for a visit from a food truck or the mayor, right? I didn’t even know what time to make the damn thing start, so I just told people the barbecue would start at 5pm and left the rest of the day to chance. I took a deep breath and hoped for the best. 

Surprise of the century, our second annual block party was totally and absolutely amazing. All I did was get the permit, hand out flyers, and buy some burgers. I didn’t tell people what to bring. I didn’t tell them when to come. It just happened, like a beautiful, independent organism that thrives on social interaction and ridiculous amounts of food.

The kids ran around in bathing suits all day, periodically stopping to consume fruit, chips, or ice cream. They made new friends. It was awesome! It made me think there is hope for a 70’s summer after all, where we send them out the door in the morning and yell for them to come back at dinner.

On the adult side of things, we got to know neighbours we’ve lived near for eight years but have never really met. The 89-year-old lady who’s lived at the end of the block for 60 years came out with tins of cookies. The people we never, ever see come out of their houses came out of their houses. And I hardly did a thing. All that fretting for nothing. <Insert eye-roll emoji>

Thus, I have written myself a list for next year: 

1. Book fire department earlier.
2. Invite adjacent blocks.
3. Encourage barbecue rivalry.
4. Keep calm, dude. The block will party on.

Muffins for the masses

Back when I used to eat gluten, these glorious goodies could be seen making the trip to my mouth on a regular basis. My good friend, Christine, brought me a batch not long after we got home from the hospital with our first burrito. They have been a staple in our house ever since.

They smell so good coming out of the oven, I am often tempted to throw caution to the wind and inhale one on the spot. Then I remember how nice it is to not look five months pregnant (since I'm not) and I walk away. 

The original recipe had things like white sugar, white flour and canola oil. True to form, Chris gave them a nutritional makeover with no resulting impact on their popularity. Not only are they healthy, they are dead easy to make—so much so that I’ve been able to get over myself and let the kids help.

In keeping with that, they are also forgiving (the muffins, not the kids). Today, for example, we added an extra egg because heaven forbid one child gets to crack and egg and the other does not. Then I accidentally governed the addition of an extra half-cup of flour. No tantrums were thrown upon consumption so I’m assuming everything worked out fine.

Branana Chocolate Chip Muffins 1 cup mashed ripe banana (about three medium) 1 egg 1/2 cup apple sauce 1/2 cup wheat bran 1 tsp vanilla 1 tsp baking powder 1 tsp baking soda 1 tsp salt 1 cup whole wheat flour 1/2 cup chocolate chips

We just add all the ingredients into one bowl—in this order—then bake at 350˚F until a pokey thing comes out clean. I think it’s around 15 minutes. I usually forget to set a timer then remember I’m baking muffins right around the time they’re done. This is my version of living on the edge.

These can easily be made gluten-free by omitting the bran (or replacing it with a gluten-free oat bran) and substituting an all-purpose gluten-free flour. If you go ahead without the bran, add an extra quarter-cup of flour. I find gluten-free flours need extra moisture so you may need to add an extra egg (perfect if you are baking with two kids) or more apple sauce.

I will say, they don't keep as nicely when they lack gluten. This is rarely a problem since having muffins around that I can eat usually results in me eating most of the muffins. Hence why I usually make them with gluten. It's my willpower's safety net.

Lastly, if you don’t have a silicone muffin tin, go get one post haste. They are glorious. Since getting ours, we no longer leave the muffin tin soaking in the sink waiting to see which one of us will stop pretending it doesn’t exist.

You spin me right round, baby, right round

A friend of mine just asked if I want to join her for a spin class this week. Truthfully, she’s been asking me to come to a spin class for about a year. I keep saying no, simply because I’m a big fat chicken. Bok bok.

I don’t know what it is about spin classes but they intimidate the crap out of me. Everyone seems to be one step away from Tour de France qualification, you have to attach yourself to the equipment so you can’t run away and it’s an entire hour of working my wimpiest muscle group, the one that’s always first to cry uncle.

Also, I’ve just discovered you have to book—and pay for—the bike in advance. So I can’t fall back on my usual habit and come up with some elaborate, last minute excuse to save my quads from this imagined hell. Not unless I want to kiss $20 goodbye. That kind of money could buy five coffees or two jars of amazing peanut butter. That logic should give you a good indication as to why spin class is a necessary addition to my life.

I have never been athletically-inclined. Back in grade school, we had sports days when everyone in the school would compete to earn points for their house. The only event I can remember participating in was the mandatory 100 yard sprint. They would blow the whistle and I would run like I had never run before. Run like there was a tiger chasing me. Run like there was an ice cream truck about to disappear around the corner. I focused on the goal and gave it my all. Then I watched each one of my classmates cross the finish line while I continued to knock my knees half way down the field.

Despite my inabilities, I convinced myself that joining a sports teams in high school was a great way to convince people I was not a loser. The only team that didn’t have try-outs was the swim team. I guess they figured it didn’t matter how good you were as long as you weren’t going to drown. The good kids would win. The kids like me would lose but get half a day off school. Win win!

My biggest problem with swimming, other than not being able to breathe, is the flip turn. There is something in the logic of the movement that is completely lost on me. I experienced this same lack of comprehension more recently in step class, only this time I didn’t end up going sideways through someone else’s territory, which is precisely what I did at my first and final swim meet.

After that, I think I accepted that fitness would never really be a part of my life. I created a narrative of failure in my mind. I dabbled with it every once in a while, but always felt like it was on a higher plain than I could ever reach. Every class I tried would leave me dying on the floor or wiping away tears. Again, I would see everyone else trudging forward, rocking those mountain climbers like they were born to run horizontally. And there I would be, sloppy and uncoordinated, unable to handle the burn.

But two months ago, my spin friend asked if I would join her for a birthday fitness class. You have to understand, this woman would do anything for her friends. She gave me one of the best birthdays I’ve had in years. So the absolute least I could do for her on her birthday was endure an hour of pain and embarrassment.

To my shock and amazement, the class was incredible. The instructor was amazing, the music was motivating and the moves felt like they were going to make a difference. I loved every minute, even the parts where my quads felt like they were swimming in acid.

I officially drank the BODYPump Kool-Aid and have kept coming back for more. I even tried some cardio classes, despite my hate-hate relationship with cardio. The step class is the most amusing. The instructor said it takes about ten tries to graduate from uncoordinated mess to only slightly incompetent. Seven more to go and no ankle injuries yet!

So what’s happening with spin? I swallowed my fear and said yes—not just because she dangled a post-workout carrot by making a dinner reservation at our favourite restaurant. This time, I think I can actually do it.

Good intentions don't carve themselves

I always start out October with grand plans around Halloween. I set my sights on the first weekend of the month and make a mental note: We need hay bales! We need pumpkins! We need a blow-up mechanical Edward Scissorhands display! I decree that decorations must be out by sundown on that Sunday.

Flash forward to right this very moment: 3pm on Hallow’s Eve when I find myself standing next to the only candy I could find at Costco this morning (rocket lollipops and mini bags of MSG) and a lonely, warty, lopsided, and decidedly uninjured pumpkin. I really don’t want to carve this thing. My MacGyver brain is going into overdrive. A wig? A funny hat? Wait… guilt brain is making a last minute play. Dammit! Where are the rubber gloves?

I like to say that Halloween is my favourite holiday but I always seem let it slide. Not only am I lacking a costume, our three-year-old is going as the same dragon he was last year because his ignorant mother had her head up her ass. The man is obsessed with Paw Patrol. Did it occur to me that a child could be a Paw Patrol character? NO. Did I notice during any of my umpteen trips to Superstore or Costco that Paw Patrol costumes exist? NO. Did I go today in a last minute panic after being made aware of this possibility? YES. What was left? Wonder Woman. Dammit again!

The Main Event

I love the excitement of Halloween. If it’s warm, I love going around while the kids yell at the neighbours, demanding hoards of candy. If it’s cold, like today, I love to stay at home and see all the adorable costumes. I have learned not to make assumptions about who they all are because they get really insulted if you get it wrong.

“Ohhh… aren’t you a scary…. Witch/Zombie Bride/Pippy Long-Stocking!”

“I’m Evie from Descendants.”

“Of course you are, dear.”

I love all of this until it comes time to put the kids to bed. I’ve heard through the grapevine that some people have children who are gloriously immune to things like sugar, late nights, excitement, and unusual happenings. Then there are my children who take the better part of a week to recover from one night of staying up past 8:30. If you miss getting them down during the bedtime window, they get that adrenaline kick and end up bug-eyed and bushy-tailed until after 10. Sweeten the deal with handfuls of food dye and corn syrup and, well, we could re-enact Children of the Candy Corn right here in our living room.

Hmm… that’s not a half bad costume idea. That’s going in Evernote.

I Want It Now!

What’s everyone’s philosophy on candy consumption? There are those who believe children need a chance to learn self-regulation and, therefore, should be given free reign over bulging pillow cases. The theory is the child will eventually feel ill and stop eating. We tried that once at Easter. 47 eggs into it, there was still no sign of defeat. We had to shut it down. That did not go over well.

Other strategies I’ve heard include one piece of candy per age, exchange the candy for toys, exchange the crappy candy or better treats. I suggested that one to E.

“What do you have to offer me that’s better than candy?”

You got me there, kid

There’s even a dentist here in town that does an after-Halloween party where kids can exchange their candy for money, green smoothies and dried apples.

I have also heard of a mystical breed of unicorn children who forget about their candy. I laugh at this, then have a moment of panic over the expiry date on their mayonnaise.

But here’s what I don’t get: we’re all buying candy to give away so that our kids can collect candy that we want to give away. There has to be a better way. If it hadn’t been for that fictitious razor in the apple, we would all still give away homemade fudge and popcorn balls. This coming from the woman who’s pumpkin skill hasn’t carved itself.

I think I’ve stalled long enough. Time to get my gloves on and remind myself why that career in medicine never worked out.

Happy Halloween!

So, Monday, we meet again

I don’t know about all of you, but we started the week off on a spectacularly shitty note. I could tell from the moment I woke up that it was going to be rough. My hindsight brain is saying, “if you knew that going in, why didn’t you do something to change course? Duh."

Hindsight brain is such a turd. He’s always like, “I would have handle that so much better.” It’s in the same category of people who offer helpful advice for how to best handle challenging situations next time, as if you hadn’t already learned that going to Ikea on a weekend with a three-year-old was a bad call. Has no one read Men Are From Mars? Women don’t want advice. They want empathy.

So, yes, hindsight brain, I realize I could have altered course. But I didn’t. And that’s what brings us to where we are now.

Here’s my mandatory list of excuses: We were running late. When we’re under the gun, younger people seem to somehow move slower than usual, like time is speeding up and they’re stuck in molasses. Then my stress about getting younger people moving seeps out into the world and makes everyone cranky. There was even a clothing crisis… from a child who wears a uniform.

I believe that’s what therapists call miscuing. People think kids are straightforward and easy to read. Hell no. It’s never about what you think it’s about. Maybe it started off being about uncomfortable jeans, but it morphed into something much harder to manage: reality. Specifically, the realization that another week of school was about to begin. More specifically, the realization that she was going to miss me.

By the time I figured this out, the morning had already gone to hell. I saw our metaphorical train leaving the station and I did nothing to stop it. I could have waved frantically at the conductor or pulled the emergency brake or even let the train leave so we could wait for its non-crazy cousin to pull in. But, no, I let it keep chugging away.

“This is the worst morning ever of my whole life,” she screamed as I tightened her brother’s car seat, crushing his nuts in the process.

“Yes," I commiserated, "it probably is.” Meanwhile, my upstairs brain is knocking on the door of my downstairs brain, cautiously whispering, “This would be a good time to be stronger, wiser, kinder. You know…  be the adult.”

I close the car door, do a silent fist-shaking swear dance, take a deep breath and accept that we are going to be late. I go around to her side of the car. I help her with her seat belt. I look her in the eyes and tell her how much of a joy she is in my life. I tell her she is a good person. I pray that some of my words will stick to her Tephlon heart.

Things seem to settle down until I turn on the car, see the time and immediately turn back into cranky, late, asshole mom. Then I realize I’m being cranky, late, asshole mom and that this does nothing to help set them off on the right foot. I apologize for my behaviour, but not my feelings. I’m trying to show them it’s okay to make mistakes, that people will still love you if you lose your cool.

I’m sure there are practical lessons to be learned here. Set out clothes the night before. Get them up earlier. Get them to bed earlier. Be more organized. Move closer to the school. Perhaps the most valuable is this: Mondays are already tough. Skinny jeans will only make them worse.

Baby, it's cold outside

I tend to walk through the brevity of autumn with a naive hope that the crisp, sunny days will last for weeks, or at least until Thanksgiving (the Canadian one). I picture myself crunching through leaves on the sidewalk, comfortably dressed in jeans and a sweater with perhaps a vest for good measure.

I'm not sure where I picture myself enjoying this fabled fall, but it certainly isn't the city in which I live. This is the city where Halloween costumes have to either fit over snowsuits or incorporate them into the theme. Oh look, another Stay-Puff Elsa! Cute!

So it came as no surprise when the flakes started flying this morning. Sure, it was pretty but it was also really friggin' cold. I have a tendency to treat my winter wear like I used to treat vacation days when I was granted such things: save them, hoard them even, for when it's really REALLY bad.

"I can't put on the parka when it's only -3 degrees (Celsius)," I thought. "If I do that, what will I wear when it's -30?"

I even resisted turning on the heat. Now that it's been on for a few days, I'm finding the house cold again. And believe me, this isn't a case of insufficient body fat.

One might think a day like this could be a happy excuse for filling the house with the smell of freshly baked goods. Muffins, cookies, cinnamon rolls... all those things that beg for creation when the world outside is solidifying. It's a beautiful reason to stand next to an oven with a hot cup of coffee, waiting for some new delight to emerge.

Unfortunately, my freezer is already full of delights, some that no one but me will eat (apparently, in the absence of gluten, I've lost all perspective on what constitutes an edible cookie) and, besides, there was another cold hard reality staring me right in the face: a three-year-old boy.

You see, when you're a parent, you're not supposed to stay inside all day when it snows. You're supposed to act all excited that it's freezing cold outside while you rally the troops to go explore the new winter wonderland.

Yay! I can't wait to squeeze myself into snow pants I know I can't do up. Double yay! I can't wait to wrestle you into a snowsuit only to have you need to pee five minutes later.

But, as we all know, a good part of parenting is being able to bullshit. Examples include:

• What are you talking about, flu shots don't hurt!
• The dentist is fun!
• Broccoli is delicious!
• We have perfectly good food at home!

I muster up my best fun mommy voice and say, "Hey buddy. Let's go outside and play in the snow!" He looks up at me and says, "No." This is his standard response to every sentence that doesn't involve Smarties or Paw Patrol, so I try again. "Come on, it will be fun!" This time, he literally runs away from me. "No! I will be too chilly!" He grabs his talking dog, hops on the couch and says, "Mommy, will you come put the banket on me?"

I hesitate. I'm supposed to force him outside, aren't I. That's what good parents do. They show their kids that it's worth a half hour of prep to walk around the block. This is our penance for being Canadian. But as I walk to the living room, I get sucked into the cuteness vortex and lose all resolve. To hell with it. I'll be a good parent tomorrow. Better yet, I'll get Luke to do it.

Threenaged Dream

Things he currently loves: playing Paw Patrol, bananas ("banas"), trains, snuggling, reading, driving his sister to school, stirring the eggs, and Katy Perry.

Double rainbow

Three years ago today, I was in the tub, soaking in complete denial of what the day had in store.

The week before, E had been battling her third round of croup. It being the middle of summer, there were few places to find a cold breath of air during her coughing fits. The ER doctor suggested we put her head in the freezer. I’m still not sure she was joking.

She only wanted me, on the couch, in the rocking chair, but mostly snuggled up with her in bed. So there I was, her massive, whale of a mama, for whom sleep was a distant memory, perched precariously on the side of a tiny twin bed with a child the temperature of a pizza oven. I was willing the contractions to stop.

“Listen kid,” I said, “I know I’ve been telling you in not so nice tones to get the hell out of me for the past three weeks, but I implore you now to stay where you are. I promise I will give you chocolate before you’re two.”

Wonderfully, baby listened.

The following Monday, when I was a week overdue, E went back to the day home. I joked that she might have a sibling by the end of the day. I closed the door to go home. Click. Contraction. Ha ha. Very funny. 

I got back home. Closed the door. Click. Contraction. What a joker. 

I went about my usual morning, tidying up from breakfast, likely folding one of the seven hundreds onesies people had given us, all the while feeling these twinges grow stronger and more consistent. At an ultrasound appointment later that morning, Luke asked if I was in labor.

“Nooo, no, no. Just a cramp.” He humoured me by feigning belief. 

He goes back to work. I go home. I had an appointment with my OB at 2. "I can make it until 2. This isn’t that bad." I got in the tub, also known as the midwive's epidural. I was still just calling it a bath. A really long bath from which I never wanted to emerge. 

The drive to the doctor's was interesting. It’s amazing how much power your mind can have when you need it to. Only have contractions at red lights, I told my uterus. It obeyed, but there were four red lights and it made me pay for each one.

Once there, I mentioned casually that I might be in labor. She attached me to some machine behind a curtain from which I would occasionally reach out for Luke’s hand.

“Your contractions are three minutes apart,” she said.

“Do we have time for me to go home and change.” Luke asked.

“Mmm… Maybe,” she said.

As much as it would have been an exciting end to this story, we did not end up having a baby in the SUV. In fact, our little man took another seven hours to make his grand entrance, or exit. Both, I guess!

Today, three years later, I stood in the kitchen preparing cupcakes for the first birthday party this poor second child has ever had. Mixing the icing, all I could think about was that peaceful soak in the tub when the two of us had our last conversation as one, when this glorious being knocked on the door and told me he was ready to take in the world. 

Real life, no filter

For the longest time, Luke and I believed we were the only people in the world, or at least our circle of friends, who had Tazmanian devils for children. No matter how hard we tried, ad nauseum, incessantly, with Sisyphean effort, our house perpetually resisted order with the vehemence of a three-year-old resisting transition. It still does, as does the now five-year-old, still, with respect to transitions.

Every time we’d go to a friend’s house for brunch (parents of small children don't do dinner parties), their houses would be perfectly tidy as if they were preparing to list it for sale the next day. Countertops devoid of crumbs, the sink an empty chasm waiting patiently for a dirty dish, toys hidden away in quaint cubbies that would make Real Simple proud. And you could walk on the floors without playing the what-did-I-just-step-in game.

There is only one moment when our entire house looks pristine: the moment I close the door behind the wonderful woman who cleans our house every few weeks. The latch clicks, I turn around, and take a mental picture of the beauty that lay beneath the mayhem. Usually by the time I blink, there’s a bowl of yoghurt embracing gravity or an art project underway involving scissors and many tiny pieces of paper.

The disorder has sparked many an argument. I don’t like chaos. Luke doesn’t like chaos. But there are only so many hours in a day and sometimes breakfast dishes just don’t fit into them. There’s been resentment and assumptions, swearing and tears. All because our house is, for the most part, unkempt.

But you see, we’ve all been fooled. Worst of all, we do it to each other. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve warned an imminently arriving friend of the disastrous state of my house, only to perform an emergency high-speed restoration of order in the rooms said friend is mostly likely to use. I answer the door praying I haven’t missed anything, like a certain someone’s remarkable inability to remember toilet flushing (not Luke).

“Your house doesn’t look like a disaster,” friend will say as I wipe the sweat from my brow.

“It was five minutes ago,” I say jauntily as the kids race past to unleash a new form of destruction.

There was one time I let my guard down. It was a ridiculously cold, rainy morning in August. A bunch of us had our kids in swim classes at the outdoor community pool a couple of blocks from our house. All available overhangs were occupied by shivering parents and siblings waiting for the swimmers to emerge from the steaming water.

A relatively new friend of mine was there with his two boys whose swim classes were something like two hours apart. Normally, they’d spend that time at the adjacent playground. That day, their prospects were diminished to hanging out in the change room or sitting in the car, playing tic tac toe on the fogged windows.

“You should come hang out at our place in-between lessons,” I suggested as I was leaving, my child’s lips starting to turn blue. “But I’m warning you, our house is a disaster.”

This time, there was nothing I could do about it. There were toys all over the place, clothing on the banister, dishes piled on either side of the sink. There was even a kitchen cupboard open for some inexplicable reason and not one I could easily blame on the baby.

I remember his face when I opened the door.

“Wow,” he said. “You weren’t kidding.”

He stood there looking stunned for what seemed like an unusually long time, almost hesitant to sit down for fear the movement of the stool might cause a domino like cascade of tupperware from across the room. I swallowed my pride and offered to make coffee.

Later, perhaps after he’d sat down, he told me he was honoured I felt comfortable enough to invite him over when my house was in such a comical state. It killed me to have someone see the house like that. It was as if I’d opened the door in my underwear. But seriously, who’s going to choose ego over letting a friend and his kids freeze their asses off in the rain?

I guess the lesson there—other than to close the kitchen cupboards before I leave the house—is that people appreciate authenticity. Real life doesn't come open house ready. Real life involves smoothie on the ceiling and hand prints on the fridge. At least, it does in our house. How about yours? 

Game face

Last summer, when I was in the midst of feeling like shit, this poor girl went around telling everyone we were having a festival in our backyard. She was desperate to be surrounded by anyone with life left in them, since her mother clearly had none.

She picked a date. She made invitations. She invited about 30 people. I entertained the notion for a few random moments — I desperately wanted to let her see it through — but eventually had to break the news that it just wasn't going to happen. Not only did I then feel like shit, I also felt like an asshole.

This year, I'm functioning on a scale much closer to, well, functional. So I decided to take the advice of a friend who is wiser than her years should allow. It was originally given before Christmas, when I was loathe to supply my children with another mound of presents in the absence of what really mattered: cousins, chaos, and memories.

“Write your own story.”

I’m sure those words have come to me in many forms from many people on many different occasions. But here's a funny thing about advice: it's only good when you're ready to take it. After all, taking good advice usually means doing a lot of hard work — either by yourself or, perhaps worse, through asking people for help. Horrors!

This particular chapter of the story involved organizing a block party to celebrate Neighbour Day, and also to make up for crushing my child's dreams. It sent me knocking on every door — even the scary ones — to get signatures for our permit application, chasing a neighbour down the street in my pyjamas, driving to the strange traffic sign graveyard to pick up road blocks from a short, round, grey-bearded dude named Walter or Wiley, and perhaps most challenging for me, purchasing hot dogs. Yes, I have an issue with nitrates. All I can say is, I’m working on it.

I had absolutely no clue how to put on a block party but, miraculously, it all came together. There was food, a ridiculously small bouncy castle (rented under the guise of it being “Large”), music, street hockey and, of course, a water fight. Children played past their bedtimes. Adults drank until past theirs.

The best part didn't happen until the next day. The doorbell rang. It rang again. I opened the door to see a five-year-old boy standing there, the grandson of the woman I chased in my pjs. 

"Is she here," he asked, poking his head in the door. "Can she come out to play?" Clearly, he had forgotten her name. Or maybe he never even knew it. Kids don't seem to waste time with those kinds of formalities. I remember picking up E from bike camp and having her point out her new BFF, then drawing a blank when I asked for said BFF's name. Kids just want to play, and here was this new child asking mine to come out to do just that.

With that, the Neighbour Day chapter was officially written. Next on the list: summer adventures. Dear God, let it not be a cliff hanger.

Never a dull moment

Popcorn and pyjama pants

This is pretty much what Luke and I look like most evenings.

Pondering

Freedom

I could be shopping, baking, decorating... heck, even sleeping would be a better plan. Instead, I'm editing photos from August. Proof procrastination can lead to productivity.

One shot

I was allowed one shot.

So was she.

Playing hookey

Sometimes you just have to turn around, come home, and read books. Flashy shoes help.