the era continues

So, given that my list of followers literally doubled over night, I'm going to take that as a sign that My Public (snicker) wants a little more Innit?

After all, one's list doesn't double that fast just all the time, and the more fans one has, the less chance one has of doubling them. So I'm going to be like one of those musicians who comes running back out on stage right away to give the encore just in case the audience stops clapping before I do. In case they were just being polite and an encore wasn't really what they were after but you're back so it's too late now ;-)

But remember, I'm saving all the really good stuff for here!

end of an era

Well. I'm not saying this is the last post on this blog, but it definitely was the first post on my new blog, The Pear Tree Blog.

I haven't decided yet if I will completely dismantle this blog. After all, there are lots more Oliver and Amélie pictures to post, and stories to tell, and they're not the kinda thing I feel like putting out there for the general public. At the same time, I'm not sure my, like, two followers (one of them official - woot woot! - thank you Wendy!) will be so very traumatized if they aren't seeing weekly updates about my children. Just a hunch.

For now, I'll keep this page alive, but with a warning that the interesting stuff will be over there. And we'll see what happens ...

In the meantime, please do meet me at The Pear Tree.

making noise

Q: What do the piano, the flute, the timpani, the violin and the lute all have in common?

A: They're all instruments that I've played, to one degree or another.

Apparently, I come from a rather musical lineage. My maternal great-grandfather and his brood were all musical, playing the fiddle and piano, mostly - although I seem to remember a great uncle playing the banjo and accordion as well.

My grandmother played the violin and piano - not well, by professional standards, but enough to lead the charge in friendly get-togethers. I don't think any of her children learned any instruments. If they did, they certainly didn't carry their talent into adulthood. But when I was five, it was decided that the torch would be passed to me. I was to take piano lessons, and there were hushed whispers that perhaps someday I would be a "real piano player." Or at least a teacher.

Sadly, it was not to be. I had neither the aspiration nor discipline required to succeed in the musical arena. In fact, when I recently interviewed piano player extraordinaire, William Joseph, I felt downright embarrassed admitting to him that I took piano lessons from the age of five up until university ... but I don’t really play. I don’t think someone like him could understand how such a thing could be possible.

But, contrary to my grandmother's disparaging remarks as great-grandchildren entered the scene that, "well, maybe we'll have a piano player in the family after all," (for the record, we still do not), it was not all for naught. That shaky musical foundation led me to pick up the flute in Grade 8 and teach myself the very, very basics before starting lessons so I could play in the school band. After three years of that, I decided to explore percussion and was handed a pair of timpani sticks and a brief introduction on how to tune the big, kettle drums before being let loose on them. Sometime after graduating from university I became curious about the violin and, knowing absolutely nothing about how it worked, sat down and worked out the note progression and then started scratching out some simple tunes. The more I played, the better I got, and although I wouldn’t dream of going head to head with a real fiddler, I can play well enough to entertain myself alone or with a small group of fellow amateurs on a quiet evening. The lute I picked up after interviewing a fascinating luthier/musician that I thought I had to learn music from. After three years of lessons, I can only really play Greensleeves and a small handful of early music songs - but it was worthwhile in that I met my husband, a fellow student, through him.

You know the saying, “jack of all trades, master of none?” That’s me, that is. But I’ve come to believe that you don’t have to reach a professional level in order to get something out of a musical life. Whether it’s a love of singing despite a warbley voice, or a rudimentary grasp of an instrument that you pick up only once every couple of months, having that outlet is a special thing. So while I never met the aspirations of my mother or grandmother, they gifted me with a creative outlet that has made my life (if not my neighbours when I pull out the old fiddle now and then) richer and more complete.

I hope to pass this heritage on to my own children. With no expectations other than finding a happiness in making music.... Although I’ll let them know that their grandmama would be ecstatic if there was finally a real piano (or violin) player in the family. No pressure, though....

let's hear it for the boy

I've been thinking about how so many of my blog or FB status updates concerning my darling son Oliver recently have some negative connotation. The lead-in to Friday's is one example. No question, the boy is a going concern, but sometimes I think I dwell a little bit too much on how ... shall we say energetic? ... he is and I might come off sounding a little, er, ungrateful. I guess sometimes stories with a slight negative spin seem funnier or require venting or just somehow seem more post worthy.

So today, without any special reason in particular to inspire this, I want to take just a moment to rave about my son Oliver. Wolsey. Ols.

So far in my life, I don't think there's been anyone who's inspired such high levels of emotion in me. From the feelings of desperation I had when he was on the operating table at four days old to the giddy happiness we share when dancing around the room to Great Big Sea's Donkey Riding, to levels of anger that make me think my head will explode, this boy has a way of tapping into emotional terrain that has previously been unexplored. For better or for worse.

He's not a big one for cuddles, our boy. I think he finds them confining, or perhaps something that gets in the way of adventuring. So I have to sneak them. When we're reading, for example - one of his favourite pastimes - he'll cozy himself in under my arm and, if his mood is especially congenial, let me stroke his hair. Only before bed, or if I'm saying goodbye, will he condescend to hug and kiss me. A kiss on the lips, a nose kiss and a head bump, in that order, is his crazy little ritual.

While he has a silly streak, he's mostly a serious boy. He grows bored of toys within minutes, and loves to get in there and complete grown-up tasks. When the washing machine needs loading, he's there. I'm planning to get him a child-sized broom and dust pan for Christmas (how un-romantic!) in the hopes that maybe he'll leave the big one alone ... until he's older, anyway. This afternoon he helped Kyle sweep the front entrance and prepare the "garden" for winter.

I wouldn't go as far as to say he's one of those "old soul" type kids, but he certainly has a way about him in conversation that cracks me up. It's like he doesn't realize he's small. When you ask him a question he'll answer "yes," or "jes," with the intonation of a sage.

He loves stories about when Mamma was a little girl, or when Da was a little boy, or when Oliver was a baby or when Ammers was in the hospital (which is really about when Oliver visited her there), and asks to hear them over and over. And over.

Right now, as I type this, he's sitting on the floor reading a Little Golden Book - soaking up the pictures, examining each page carefully, sometimes smiling to himself, before turning the page. Little, unassuming moments like this overwhelm my heart with love.

Oh, I could go on and on and on ... but I know it won't interest you as much as it does me. But then I guess today's post is more for me, this time. And for Oliver, who will appreciate the knowing - at least someday. Because he's that kind of boy.

flashback friday

Wow. As I read the below entry from November 2006 (there were only two, so my options were limited) that once five-inch baby was in his room above me throwing a collosal temper tantrum because I wouldn't let him rampage through the house while I sat helplessly watching whilst feeding his baby sister. It's one of those situations that never crossed my mind three years ago. I'm just saying.

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2006
the secret's out

I'm not one who finds pleasure in nurturing secrets. That's not to say I can't keep a secret - I can - but given the choice, I'd really rather not. Especially when it's something tantalizing, like me being pregnant.

So after 12 weeks of keeping the news inside my inner most circle of peeps, the word is out and I can finally blab it to anyone and everyone.

And now that it's not a secret anymore, it's starting to feel real. It's not just my fancy, I really do have a little tiny (almost five inches, as of next week) baby inside of me.

Why does people knowing make it feel real?

Other things that make it feel real:

1. The sudden, unexpected urge to barf on Sunday morning while driving to the Laughing Moon, for breakfast. Fortunately, that didn't happen - it just disappeared after about five minutes like nothing ever happened - but it was close enough that I had Kyle pull over and I actually opened the door, ready to heave.

2. The very beginning outlines of what's commonly referred to as "the bump."

3. The sudden hits of intense hunger, just prior to meal time, as though lunch, for example, was supposed to be two hours ago and I STILL haven't eaten anything, not even breakfast, even though I did and it's only 11:45 a.m. or similar. Actually, this phenomenon is starting to pass now, but it was weird while it was there.

Things that aren't helping make it feel real:

1. No morning sickness. Aside from Sunday's outburst, I haven't really felt sick. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining - it's just one of those things that you expect to come with the package.

2. No cravings (yet!). No, that aforementioned hunger thing does not count because it's an intense hunger for normal food, and a normal amount - not, like, a gallon of rockyroad ice cream with spicy pickles, or chocolate dipped in mayonaise. In fact, if anything I've felt a loss of appetite. This sometimes makes things complicated when Kyle asks, "What do you want for supper?" Me: "Would a piece of bread and a handful of grapes work for you?"

Anyway, it is real and we're all very excited around here. So forgive me if I rant a little bit too much on this blog in the next little while - I've got 13 weeks to make up for!

real simple spaghetti

I am trying hard, oh so very hard, to be at least a tiny bit domesticated (read: prepare dinners that don't come from a package at least half the nights of a week). You see, I can cook, I really can. I just don't like to cook. I want to like it. Just like I want to like to sew and knit and jog and just wake up on my own at six o'clock every morning. But the passion, I'm sorry to say, is just. Not. There.

Case in point: A few years ago I subscribed to Real Simple magazine. If you've never encountered it, its premise is simplifying life while still staying on the cutting, even fashionable edge. It's about dressing stylishly-yet-simply. Making cleaning and other household chores a breeze. Creating tantalizing dishes in only three simple steps. So I'd look at these easy recipes, get past Step 2 and declare, "oh, no, that's just TOO complicated." Okay, so I'm a git.

But there was one that was too scrummy looking AND easy to pass by, and it's now a staple of my cooking repertoire. Easy it is, and impressive, too.

Real Simple Summer Spaghetti Sauce

6 tomatoes, chopped
4 oz crumbled goats cheese
1 seeded and chopped jalapeno
1/2 cup chopped basil
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 cup parmesan cheese

Combine ingredients in a large saucepan and toss over medium heat just until heated through. Season to taste with salt and freshly ground pepper and pour over spaghetti. Top with parmesan. Consume.

Makes 6 servings

It's so lovely the way it is, but I've started adding sliced mushrooms, spinach or other ingredients to change it up a bit now and then. So go to town with it. And if you try it, let me know what you think.

P.S. Apparently I'm a lazy blogger, too, because I was inspired to write this after reading Kirsten's blog today. I mention it because if this doesn't strike your fancy, perhaps her recipe will.

25

Recently, I was invited to join a '25 Club.'

Have you ever heard of one? It's a social club - or group (it's pretty informal) - with a mandate to gather once a month to socialize. But there's a twist, and this is the clincher: One lucky lady (ours is all women) leaves at the end of the evening with $300 in her pocket that she must (must!) spend on herself before the next month's meeting.

Brilliant, innit? Our group, which met for the first time last night, has 12 members - one for each month of the year. Each time we meet we all bring $25 to put into the pot. One name is drawn, and that person takes the lot. Of course, once you've won your name is not put back into the draw, so everyone is guaranteed to get $300 once a year.

The rule is, the winner of the cash can only spend it on themselves - no bills are to be paid or savings accounts added to - and the winner becomes the next month's host, at which time they must show or report back on what they spent the money on.

For obvious reasons, contributions are expected with or without attendance for each year-long commitment.

The windfall is only one aspect of the club. After all, anyone could put $25 a month aside and end up with $300 at the end of the year - which is, essentially, what the 25 Club makes you do. Other ones I've heard of talk up the camaraderie of the group, as members have a chance to listen, express, kvetch or just imbibe in the company of like-minded females.

I did a story on a 25 Club about five years ago. The women I spoke to from the group hailed the unconditional support that they had received as their favourite part of the experience. While most of them only saw each other once a month, the group had helped its various members through deaths, divorces, hangovers, menopause, boyfriends, career changes and basic PMS.

I remember thinking, at the time, that it would be cool to start one. But, as with my book club aspirations, I just never got around to it. So I was elated when my sister's friend started one, and invited me to join.

Aside from my sister, I don't know the other women very well at all - although there were only three that I had never met before. But I'm looking forward to watching as our individual personalities are revealed and - even if loosely - intertwined.

Our demographics don't have a big range - most of us are in our 30s, mothers, working at least part time and church-goers (although not strictly, I don't believe, from the same denomination).

I can't wait to hear how our first winner will indulge herself this month. As for me, I'm contemplating a whole slew of ideas - from a spa day to a theatre subscription, a weekend away, a gym membership, some new wardrobe items, or maybe a makeover for my sad, stringy head of hair. I'm starting to think that half the fun is in the dreaming....

What would you spend it on?

border collie boy

I've been researching dogs on the internet. Not because we're going to get a dog - we're not - but too see what kind of dog would be a good one to get if we DID get one - which we won't.

Reading the description of the Border Collie brought someone to mind: My son, in fact. Oliver.

Read with me the excerpts I've taken, replacing the words "Border Collie" with "Oliver" and some of the activities preferred by the dog with ones Oliver is partial to.

Oliver-type boys are an intelligent breed... The child has an instinctive desire to work closely and intensely with a human handler... True to their working heritage, Olivers make very demanding, energetic children that are better off in households that can provide them with plenty of play and exercise with humans or other dogs. Olivers are happiest with a job to do. However, a job to Oliver isn't necessarily playing quietly on his own with his toys. An activity such washing dishes, putting clothes in the washing machine, or just simply helping to stir whatever is cooking in the pot will suffice... Though they can be a wonderful choice for some households, Olivers are not perfect offspring for all people. For example, they may attempt to control the movements of family members, cats, stereos, visitors or anything else that moves if not given enough mental and physical stimulation...

I've also heard that Border Collies can be destructive when left on their own with nothing to do for too long. Hmmm... If we did get a dog - which I definitely don't want to do - I know for sure it wouldn't, couldn't be a Border Collie. One in this family is enough!

another first

Oliver got his first stitches today. In his head - two of them.

He was walking on the pew in church, back and forth, almost from one end to the other because we were sitting on one end and a family with a little girl about Oliver's age was sitting on the other. I told him several times not to walk on the pew, since it seems disrespectful. But then the other little girl started doing it too and they seemed so cute, going back and forth together, that I kind of let it go.

After doing this for a little while, I noticed that the little girl was sitting down with her parents again, and I thought it was time to reign Oliver in, too. But on his way back, he tripped, fell off the pew and smacked his head into the leg of the pew ahead of us. Of course, he cried, I picked him up and escaped to the Mother's Room with him while the other mother watched Amélie.

After a little cuddle he stopped crying and I was about to head back into the sanctuary to sit down when I noticed something wet on my arm. My sleeve had dark smears. Then I saw his blood covered little head.

A friend of mine, who happened to be in the Mother's Room at the time, went and grabbed the pastor's wife, who is a nurse. She is so lovely and composed and calmly suggested that we make our way to the hospital for a couple of stitches.

Fortunately, my mum showed up just as we were leaving, and accompanied me so I wouldn't have to juggle baby and boy at the same time.

Ols was a champion through the whole thing, crying only in the beginning, and then during the stitch-up - not because he could feel anything, but because he wasn't happy about being restrained.

So this afternoon, after getting home, we indulged a boy (who didn't seem to get what all the fuss was about) by watching some episodes from Blue Planet (AKA "The Fish Show"). And he indulged us by letting us administer a few extra cuddles.

On a less happy note, shortly after I started writing this Kyle broke the news that Tiggywinkle is no more. We don't know what happen. I suspect a heart attack from his dormant lifestyle. Don't get me started on the guilt I've felt over the past year-and-a-half over keeping him all penned up so he can't amble his standard five miles a night, instead just eating and sleeping and occasionally being taken out to be shown off.

The point is, it's been quite a day.

I suppose some days are like that ... fortunately they're not so often.

another cat reminescence

Let's just call this "Flashback Fridays." Moving forward a year, I give you my favourite entry from the month of November, 2005:

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 2005
me-ow!



Rudyard Kipling had a great understanding of cats. "I am the cat that walks alone and all things are the same to me," he made the first Cat say, repeatedly, in his classic short story, The Cat That Walked Alone.

He could have been writing about my car. A Jaguar - named after a species of cat for reasons appreciated only by those who have owned both cats and Jags. Like your average house cat (or even the feral kind - why limit it?), my car has a mind of its own. If there's something in it for it, it might decide to cooperate. If not, don't even ask. Some days it loves you, others it's happier pretending you don't exist.

I took it in to the only British car mechanic in town last week, to get it wedding ready. I figure that, now that I have the thing, I might as well use it for one of the most important days of my life. Make it worth the investment.

When I stopped driving it, the front driver's side triangle window had been taken out by vandals. The brights went on automatically when I turned my driving lights on, pissing off everyone I passed at night; the back brake lights didn't work (I used to turn the parking lights on whenever I stopped so some sort of light would come on in back to warn people of my stopping), and, oh, billows of smoke appeared from under the hood within seconds of starting it.

I had pretty much sworn off cats as cars, and the thing has been languishing in my mum's garage (much to her chagrin) for the past three years.

Well, it's back, now, and my affection for it was renewed whilst driving it home - "motoring" through the curvey roads of East Kelowna, gliding through the town traffic (turning heads all the way) and pulling up to my house. I then drove Kyle to the airport - or rather he drove himself - for his bachelor weekend in Vancouver. So to my Grandma's, to collect my supper, and home (it's home; my mum's).



The thing drives like a dream. It's like riding a cloud. Because it's so wide and solid, you just float over bumps, feeling practically nothing. Turning heads as you do is just the icing on the cake.

Still, it takes premium, 94 octane petrol ($1.13/l vrs. $.99 regular), gets only 15 miles to the gallon (20 on the highway - makes Kyle's SUV seem environmentally friendly), and goes through motor oil almost as quickly (question: how do you know it's time to add oil to a Jag? When it stops dripping).

According to Kyle, who drove behind me on the way home from the mechanic's (who's name is Mike, so Mike and the Mechanics), the brake lights were working fine, as were the signal lights. Then again, my lights seemed to work fine on the way home from the airport - but as I left my grandma's, they were back to brights only - - Cats!

But we'll use it for the wedding. Get our $244 of work worth out of it (supposedly we shouldn't have to add any oil before then), and then retire the beast back to the garage. Maybe in the future we'll have the engine overhauled (we being me and Kyle - he probably didn't realize he was getting THREE high maintenance divas out of the deal - Me, Sarah, Jag), and have the interior redone.

That's the other thing about cats - they tend to grow on you to the point that, just when you think you've had enough, they start to purr, and your heart just melts all over again. And, oh, you should hear my Jaguar purr!

***

Update: Now that we have our own home with a two car garage, the Jag sits languishing in OUR garage. With the price of Regular gas tipping the scales at over a dollar ($1.03 today) that's not about to change any time soon. But it still melts my heart the odd time it's fired up and driven out onto the driveway in order to move something in or out of its habitat. Perhaps someday I'll have a more exciting update, which would include a lump sum of cash in exchange for its pleasing purr...

gone but not forgotten?

One of the nights I missed my daily blog entry I was watching Out of Africa. Again. It's one of my favourite movies, and one of my favourite books. Haunting, poetic, adventurous, stylish and from a time long past - it creates the perfect storm to capture my imagination.

This time, we watched with the commentary on. Director Sydney Pollack talked us through the trivia, the behind the scenes anecdotes and some of the major themes they tried to bring out in the making of it. It was then that I realized more consciously one of the reasons I connect so well with the main character, Karen Blixen: her desire to be remembered and her fear of being forgotten.

Everyone wants to leave a legacy on some level. For some, the outlet is politics. For some, the siren song of fame lures them to Hollywood or Nashville. Others put their efforts into doing their best at work, or raising offspring that will hopefully make positive contributions to the world.

I suppose that's partly why I write. I mean, aside from the creative outlet, the love affair with words ... there's this niggling little urge to put myself down on paper. Or into cyber space, in the case of this blog. To connect with someone in that way. To be known. Even if it's not me I'm writing about, there's always a part of me that's present in what I write - which is why I have a distaste for writing just-the-facts-hard-news (even though it pays better).

Like Karen Blixen, I wish the memory of me would live in the walls or spaces of places I've lived, or frequented. That even after my things are removed, a little piece of me, my laughter or my tears, would remain. I sometimes wonder if memories of truth or dare and flying books and cup after cup of Irish Cream flavoured coffee live on in my room in Moor Close. If the floors remember my footstep or the walls remember my touch.

Of course I know that's not the case, and I suppose that what's more important is that these things remain in us. Rather than some ethereal part of me continuing to exist in England, or Korea, or the neighbourhood in which I grew up, there's a part of these places - and others, many, many others - that continues to exist in me.

Recently, Oliver has taken an interest in my past, and frequently asks, "read about when mamma was a little girl." So I tell him story after story and he sits, entranced, always wanting more. I don't know if he'll always remember these stories, but there is a legacy burgeoning from it all, because some day he'll tell a story about how, when he was a little boy, his mamma used to regale him with tales of her past over peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a cuppa tea.

And maybe, just maybe, in the grand scheme of things, that's one of the grandest legacies a person can leave - a personal connection with someone else. Friends, family, readers.

Christina Rossetti, in her poem, Song ("When I am dead, my dearest"), said, "And if thou wilt, remember, And if thou wilt, forget." I relate with half the sentiment, anyway: And if thou wilt, remember.

sarah the cat update

So, we still have Sarah. I can't believe she's around 11 years old now!

Her rotten mouth is doing much better since we got most of her teeth out, in two sessions, a couple of years apart. The first session the vet had estimated it could cost somewhere around $800 to remove the offending teeth - but ended up costing less than half of that because they were so bad they were coming out with a tug and didn't need to be cut out. She now eats crunchy food exclusively, which you wouldn't think she could do with no teeth, but the vet said cats mostly just swallow their food anyway, and she seems happy enough so there you go.

I did get my deposit back when I moved out of the apartment she terrorized with deep gouges in the door frames and walls during her mental outbursts. I won't say I married Kyle for his ability to subtly plaster over such things, but it certainly came in handy. She has since ceased, more or less, clawing contraband, which is a good thing because we own this place and feel less understanding!

Her low point came a few months before we moved. After marrying Kyle, who really made a concerted effort to be her friend, buying her treats and brushing her fur and encouraging her to jump up on his lap, she took to hiding in the back of the water heater closet, under the stairs. Just across from that door, about three kitty steps away, were her food and water dishes. Well, Kyle noticed that she had started this routine of going into the closet and coming right out again before eating. Consistently. Obsessively. And he wondered what would happen if he closed the door. So he did. Even though she was hungry, that cat would not eat, or even sniff her food. She started pacing and meowing in front of the door, and then trying to scratch her way under it. It was if she was turning into Rain Man and it was five minutes to Wapner! When that didn't work, she started looking for another way in. She went to the stairs and started sniffing around, understanding that there was a connection to her lair - but to no avail. More pacing. More meowing. Increased desperation. After close to 10 minutes, we relented and opened the closet door. She walked in, turned around, walked out and ate her food. But after that she became obsessive about the place and would hardly ever leave it - in case ... in case ... you know ...

She's definitely more adjusted in our current abode. Partly, I think, it's because there's no water heater closet or little hidden den for her to hold up in. Also, with a few floor to ceiling windows, and no restrictions on looking out them, she's got something to look at. We still don't let her go outside, however, because 1) she's not used to it and also has no teeth and 2) outdoors cats are more likely to cause allergies and Kyle is walking a fine line as it is.

But while she definitely prefers this place to the old one, I wouldn't say she's happier. If anything, she's more traumatized than ever. This is thanks to one energy packed boy who, if he had a dog, would have a totally into it playmate - but he puts Sarah completely on edge. He delights in screaming like a banshee and taking chase when she runs - which she inevitably does. If I don't physically stop him, he'd chase her up and down the stairs all afternoon. She does not find any morsel of joy in this. Luckily for Oliver, she's also a pacifist and would never THINK of scratching - even if cornered. While I don't wish ill on my own flesh and blood, I occasionally think if she'd just lay one half-hearted swipe on him he'd learn a lesson and leave her alone. But no.




Because of that, I'd really like to find her a new home. Unfortunately, most people want kittens and not 11-year-old cats with no teeth and a stump for a tail. So, she continues to abide. With us. For now. Poor slob.

blast from the past

A couple of my favourite professional bloggers who have been doing this a while have taken to posting something written on this day a few years ago. Still short of an original idea but wanting sincerely to keep my promise to blog everyday this month, I've decided that, if the pros can do it, why would it be considered breaking the rules if I, too, glance back on the rare occasion? So I'm declaring every Friday this month "Blast from the Past" day here on innit. Except I'm not usually a daily blogger so my dates don't always match up - therefore, I'm picking my favourite from the month of November for that year. Tonight, we're heading back to my first year, 2004. I CAN'T believe I've been doing this for FIVE YEARS!!

And so that I get the most mileage possible out of this, check back tomorrow for the update ;-)

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 2004
s.a.d. or d.a.f.t?

Now moving into my third winter with Sarah Vaughan (sorry, Syrrah, as she now prefers, although those of you reading from Australia may prefer "Shiraz"), I'm noticing a pattern. It starts early in October, as the days start to shorten: the sudden bursts of energy, tearing across the house like her tail is on fire. The wild eyes. The repeated leaps over my head at odd hours of the night. Then there's the scratching on door posts, walls and expensive, antique oak filing cabinets. By the time the New Year arrives, half the furniture is wrapped in paper while the door posts are protected with tape. I don't believe I'll get much of my deposit back when I move.

If I can just be clinical for a moment, I've started to speculate that SV may suffer from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). Despite the fact that her behaviour is more MAD (Mentally, Adversely Disturbed - I made that up). I mean, if people can get a biochemical imbalance because of the lack of light, why can't a cat?

Of course there's the argument that she doesn't get significantly more light in the summertime, being an indoor cat who's not allowed to be glimpsed in windows by passersby.

Still. Come summer, butter wouldn't melt in her angelic (if rotted out) mouth. She tiptoes like a cherub around the place, never even glancing at her forbidden scratching posts. She NEVER hides lampwork beads or tries to eat fruit-shaped Christmas ornaments. She wouldn't THINK of trying to tear down my handmade lace curtain or systematically rip the leaves of my already floundering fig tree, perched atop the brown wingback chair, watching one spiral to the ground before going after another one. It just wouldn't cross her mind. No, she'd rather sit on a cushion blissfully and think about what a good owner she has (at least that's what I assume consumes her thoughts - what else could it be?)

I will admit, it's not the most enviable life a cat could want, living here with me. In fact, since taking up residence here, SV has been like the Anne Frank of kitties, living in hiding from the pet Gestapo (building management, two doors down). She's not allowed to sit in the downstairs window, or poke her little nose outside. But it's for her own good, really. Of course, try explaining that to her when she's stampeding across the floor at 5:30 a.m. over my downstairs neighbour's bedroom. Do the words "provoked informant" mean nothing to her??

I do wish she could be an outdoors cat - and not just so I could boot her out when she starts getting daft. Or to save on the whole litter box mess. I wish she could go and catch birds and mice (nothing against birds and mice, but it's a cat's life). Frolic in the snow. Climb real trees instead of my filing cabinet. One year I brought a big pile of leaves into the living room for her to pounce on. My roommate at the time, a Korean, thought I was insane (although to be fair I think she thought that just anyway). Syrrah just loved it, even though I was the one who had to throw them around while she just watched.

Right now she's acting fine, curled up, sleeping, beside me - which leads me to believe she's connivingly plotting her next exploit. What will it be, I have to wonder? Shooting cutlery off the kitchen countertop again (bonus points for doing it from forbidden territory)? Tossing my neatly rolled pyramid of dish clothes to the far reaches of the kitchen? Perhaps shovelling all the litter out of the box one more time for a laugh - like I have nothing better to do than chase around in the wake of her calamity - Hurricane Sarah/Syrrah/Shiraz - demolition times three. The perfect storm.

So I'm thinking about a) some serious medication and 2) pet counseling now, to make it through the winter. Just not sure who's going to need more when it comes down to it - her or me.

featured parent

Oh boy. It's only Day 4 and I'm already out of ideas. So I'm going to post something now that I was waiting until next month to post. It's an interview I did with a new publication in these parts called Okanagan Child. This time, I was the subject. It's a fun, question and answer format for their "Featured Parent" section. It won't appear online until some time in December and I'll probably plug it again then because it will have the pictures that were taken of me and Ammers and Ols during a photoshoot in the downtown library. So much fun!

A bit about myself...
I’m a mother, a daughter, a sister, a wife, an auntie and a friend. I’m a second-generation Kelowna girl who loves to travel whenever and wherever the opportunity arises. I’m a musician, but not a very good one, and a lover of old books with a good story. Sometimes I’m as immature as a two-year-old and sometimes I’m wise beyond my years – but not as often as I wish. I’m also a freelance writer and photographer-cum-budding entrepreneur with a new website. Oh, and I love a good adventure.

How I've grown as a person through motherhood...
I think my eyes have been re-opened to a lot of living that I had discarded in my journey through adulthood – simple pleasures, such as puddle jumping or the taste of a fresh peach or the wisdom of Winnie-the-Pooh. Looking at the world as my son must see it has brought back some of the excitement and adventure that I – and I dare say the majority of adults – lost to the pressures of work, bills and expectations to “act your age.”

My favorite part about being a mom...
I know it probably sounds selfish, but it’s an amazing thing to be at the centre of somebody’s world. When Oliver gets hurt, he wants me. When he learns a new skill, he looks for my praise. Right now, Amélie is completely dependant on me for everything from warmth and comfort to nourishment and a clean bottom. I know it won’t always be this way – the older they get, the less dependant they’ll be, and someday a spouse and kids of their own will take my place of honour, so I’m trying to enjoy it while I can – and hopefully it will be the foundation for a strong connection later.

The greatest challenges in my role as a mom...
I tend to do things quickly and practically, and have for a very long time. So it’s a real challenge to loosen up and meander a bit – to stop and let my two-year-old make friends with a caterpillar or take a long-cut somewhere or struggle to put his shoes on himself when I could do it three times as fast. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s not just a doll to drag around with me but a little person who needs to experience and enjoy things, too.

The difference between life with one child and two...
The first time I became a mother I didn’t have the confidence to trust my instincts. All the conflicting advice I got from everyone I came into contact with – friends, family and even perfect strangers – was confusing and stress inducing. When the second one comes along you realize, hey, I can do this! So, strangely, life with two is, in many ways, less stressful than life with one child was. I guess you learn to let things go because you realize you can get through it.

All new parents should know...
Someone who can share the load. If not a spouse than a friend, sister, mother or other support person. I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to raise a child or family all by myself.

Favorite ways to unwind...
My needs are simple: an evening in a coffee shop with a chai latte and a good book or magazine, an independent movie on DVD, cuddled up on the couch with my husband, or (blushing now) on my computer, surfing Facebook and my favourite blogs.

I never leave home without...
My clothes on. Everything else – cell phone, wallet, lipstick, pen and paper, even nappies – I can survive without (if needed), at least on short trips. I have come to learn this by going through life as a rather forgetful person.

New holiday traditions I'm creating for my children...
Some of the most cherished family traditions just evolve – you can’t plan them. That said, I want to fill our holidays with together time – not just present opening around a tree and Christmas specials on TV. Think cookie bakes, tobogganing, musical get-togethers where everyone plays something, and story telling by the fireplace.

Pet peeves...
When people count to get kids to comply (“I’m counting to three!”). I have yet to see it work in the long term, probably because there’s usually no consequence when they finish counting, so what’s the point. My son, Oliver, has been known to count along with my husband when he does it, but still not do what he’s supposed to!

What I want most for my children...
Like most parents, I want all good things for my children. But if I had to pick just one, it would be for them to appreciate that they are a child of God, that their life has a purpose and there is something amazing waiting for them.

go leafs!

Since I'm not a hockey fan (I still think the lock-out three years ago was the best season yet!) today's title can only mean one thing: playing in the autumn leaves. Now that I'm a fan of.

Earlier this week, I had a hankering to throw some leaves around. Oliver wanted to go to his Grandmama's house (my grandma, his great-grandma) to visit since we hadn't been there in a while. Since she has a much bigger yard, with lots of trees, I figured we could both get what we wanted that particular afternoon.

Of course, I brought my camera. I might get a few colourful pictures, I thought. What I captured, it turns out, is something a lot more valuable - something I really want to storyboard properly at some point. Because how many kids get to play in the leaves with their great-grandmother? There's 84 years between them, and as I watched their interaction unfold, I felt the intergenerational magic that resulted.

I had one great-grandma (this grandma's mother) alive when I was born, but she passed away before the end of my first year, so I have zero recollection of her. Oliver's lucky - he's got my mum's mum and step-dad (pappa), and Kyle's mom's mom (who he calls Oma-ma) and dad (Opa-pa). That's a lot of greats. And, hopefully, a lot of great memories will be made while he has them.

meet me at the pear tree

For the last few months, I've been busy. Busy with baby things, obviously, busy with an uber active two-year-old, busy trying to keep the house together at the seams, busy with work, and busy trying to launch my own magazine.

For several years, quite possibly since my university days, I've wanted to start a magazine of my own, with gorgeous photos and write-ups of heritage homes, antique furnishings, homemade foodstuff, independent boutiques and artists, crafters and artisans. Obviously, the start-up costs of such an endeavour would be, shall we say, prohibitive.

But now, the time seems right to create such a publication. No, I did not recently win the lottery. The times, they are a changing, and it's now possible to do all this online. No printing costs, no 10th storey office. Just me, my laptop and my Canon Rebel XT.

I've been doing a lot of research and have discovered many excellent examples of what I want, online. And if the number of advertisements gracing their side columns are any indication, they are successful.

Of course, to keep mine from being just like the others, I'm giving it a local slant - the Okanagan and neighbouring regions. At least to start.

To begin with, The Pear Tree will have one or two feature stories a month, a calendar of events and a blog. To begin with it will all be written by me, but (if) as advertising revenue increases, the plan is to contract other writers/photographers and an advertising agent, and leave me with the job of assigning and editing the work.

It's an exciting and yet somewhat daunting project. I'm NOT a salesperson, and so the prospect of rounding up advertisers scares me just a little. But it's something I'm passionate about and that should help ... I think ...

Our (Kyle is in charge of the graphic design side of things, including the above logo, and has been so lovely about indulging my sometimes mad whims) first issue should be out in December (egad, that's next month!) and will have, of course, a Christmas theme. I'm currently setting up pics with the Homes for the Holidays house tour, and am in negotiations with my favourite food writer to contribute something delectable for a food page.

When we go live, I will likely shut this blog down and continue - posting at least three times a week - on our Pear Tree site.

In the meantime, there's lots still to organize - in between the baby, toddler, house and other work. Whoever said that motherhood is dull??

no time

I'd rather be blogging tonight - really, I would. But no, I've got to write a story about a country music singer and songwriter named Corb Lund, who is coming to Kelowna next week. I suppose my editor assigned the interview to me because he knows how much I loooooooove country music. I couldn't write it earlier in the day because I had a commitment to play in the leaves with Oliver, even though I don't make as much money doing that. Anyway you probably don't really care, but I'm telling you anyway because I pledged to blog every day this week and I don't want to start skiving off on Day 2. So let it be said, I am posting something. I'll make it more interesting tomorrow, I promise.

nablopomo

It's National Blog Posting Month and the challenge has been laid for bloggers to up the output and post something (anything!) every day for the month of November. Don't know whether I'm up to the task or not but if it can be, like today's is, a short and sweet entry, then I'm certainly willing to try. Just a warning, however, by the end of the month you may know waaaaaay more about me than you ever wanted to.

a boy, a knife and a trio of bananas

I was washing up the dishes while Oliver was playing on the island, behind me, with his button collection. Or so I thought. I turned, just in time to see him slice his third and final banana in half with the bread knife I apparently left out. I tried to sound angry to cover up my amusement at seeing the bananas hanging there like that, one clean slice each, almost-but-not-quite through, but I'm not sure even he was convinced - although I really wasn't happy he was playing with knives. That's okay, I was going to make banana bread anyway ...

kin

When Big Brover is not actually pinching his baby sister, slapping her, WALKING on her or, ahem, riding his push car into her basket bed while she's trying to sleep, it's actually quite compelling to see the two young siblings connect. Witness, above, the spontanious display of affection. And, best of all, no young babies were hurt in the photographing of this scene :)

the travel bug

This morning I asked Oliver, age two, what he wanted to do today. He said, "Go to England." While I thought that sounded like a jolly idea, I explained that England was too far away and takes a whole day to fly there. What else would he like to do? "Fly in airplane," he responded. Right. So I asked him what else he'd like to do today. Here was our conversation:

Oliver: Go to Canada.
Me: We're already in Canada.
Oliver: No, we're in our house.
Me: Yes, but our house is in Canada. We live in Canada.
Oliver: Go to Egypt.

I think he's inherited my travel bug.

in the orchard

More Oliver pics. Because I go in spurts of not taking pictures for months and then feel I need to make up for lost time by going on a photographing binge for a few days.

Oliver, Amélie and I headed out to the orchard the other day, to see where apples come from. On the way up, I regaled Oliver with stories of his great grandma (Grandmama) picking apples when she was young, which apparently caught his fancy. The first thing he wanted to do when we got there was pick his own apple off the tree. I think this is actually frowned upon in this orchard (apples are picked out of the bins in the retail area), but it was such a great moment I couldn't stop him from picking just one (I was responsible enough to kibosh ensuing attempts).

Arriving


Heading to an apple tree


This one's too high


This one's just right!


There's also a petting zoo on site, with goats ...


And chickens


Making friends




I bought these shoes in England about 14 years ago for my niece. They've been through her and her younger brother and now, finally, my own child can reap the benefits. I would never have imagined, when I bought them, what I was investing in. Oliver now calls them "Your (he refers to himself in the third person) English shoes."




Peeking in the chicken coop


There was also a pumpkin patch on site


This one's just about right


Biting into a fresh off the tree, crisp, sweet, juicy apple


And that's a wrap!

equal play

I've been taking a lot of pics of Oliver lately - mostly because he does more. So, to even things up, before I post more Wolsey pics I'm going to show off Baby Ammers a bit. She's really a joy to photograph, not the least because she doesn't get all camera shy like her big brother does and constantly run in the other direction, or have to be bribed to look at me when I've got the camera out!

Amélie at two months



Is it just me or is she not an absolute doll??



Butter wouldn't melt in this mouth (whatever that means)



Well, maybe she's got a little cockey streak - I guess she comes by it naturally!


Okay, just one shot with "Big Brover Oliver"

fall fair

We turned work into play last weekend when I headed to a neighbourhood fall fair on the other side of town, family in tow, to take some pictures for the paper.

It was just a small event, to raise money for the B.C. Cancer Society, but the park where it was held was just crawling with kids. While Oliver couldn't do a lot of the stuff going on - like the climbing wall - and the queues for some of the attractions, including face painting, were just too long for his impatient parents to stand in, he still got to have a little fun while baby sister Amélie blissfully slept.

Here's a sampling of his afternoon:



Oliver was chuffed to see a fire truck parked on site.



And even more delighted to learn he could actually climb up and sit in it.



Not so pleased about having his picture taken with the friendly fireman, however.



Rockin' out on a rocking horse



The nylon tunnel was a huge hit!



He was a little skeptical about getting on the real horse, at first ...



But didn't take long to warm up to the idea ...


And as I watched him disappear around the track, I was hit by the contrary realities of my baby boy growing up so fast, now taking his first horseback ride, and his tiny body teetering on the back of this comparatively huge animal. I'm learning it's a typical feeling for a parent - cheering them on as they learn and grow and trundle their way past milestones, looking forward to whatever's next, while fighting the niggling feeling that it's all happening that little bit too fast and can we please sustain the moment just a little longer please?



Alas, all good things must come to an end ... until next time ...

christopher robin

Oliver went through a stage of wanting to be called "Tom Kitten" (from the Beatrix Potter story) followed, briefly, by Tom's sister "Moppet." His current fixation, however, is with Christopher Robin. Here he is, in the backyard, reinaction the "tut tut, looks like rain," scene. The boots, obviously, are mine.