Max Makes A Movie

And wouldn't you know but it has Lego in it? Imagine that.

He and Richard took about 48 pictures for this little office fracas. Then they loaded them into a magical machine and out came a real live movie. No, sadly, not my magical machine. My machine is not magical enough.

Gosh, the wonders of technology.

(reminds me of a Herman comic: Two cavemen stare at the flaming fire torch in one caveman's hand. One says to the other "That's fantastic! I can't keep up with all this modern technology.")

I feel like that sometimes.

Anyhow, here's his movie. It's short and, if I may say so, has a certain panache to it.

Crazy Garden Weather

Today was April Fool's weather. Yesterday I was out in the garden in my never ending quest to eradicate all lawn from the front yard (harder than it sounds), almost stripped to the waist (don't want to horrify the neighbours) because of the sunny heat enveloping me. Yes, the heat was enveloping me!

I managed to get all the sod off the Lozenge Bed (RIP Lozenge Bed), placed some stepping stones here and there so I could still get in without compacting the soil, and planted two new roses to go with my Granada and Honor stalwarts: Guy de Maupassant and Tahitian Sunset. I also moved the Princess Victoria Louise poppy over a little so there would be more room for all its enchanting gorgeousness (if you ever buy a poppy, buy this one). I piled on a little topsoil, some of Home Despot's finest, and bashed around happily with my new garden fork. Spring was around the corner, I could feel it.







I brought out the beach rocks we'd hauled back from our holiday over the past few years. There's a pattern in these collections: one year it was all green rocks, another year it was all spotted rocks, and yet another it was all round, smooth, flat rocks. Now they are winding around the Scotch moss, well, until the Scotch moss comes out of dormancy and starts taking over the garden again...











I stuck some bricks on a hill, to make a sort of staircase. It's very atmospheric, isn't it, even if the bricks aren't as, err, functional as I would have liked.

At least now I can get down that hill without sliding on my butt half the time.





Then, this morning, I glanced out and saw this, on my charming new topiary frame for which I thankfully did not pay $110.

Heavenly dandruff? I thought hopefully.

No, very very sadly, it was snow.


SNOW!

And that, very tragically, was nothing compared to what we looked out onto an hour later. At one point there was at least 4" of the stuff on the deck. The kids were thrilled. I, on the other hand, was SO not thrilled.

So instead I did a FDPG: I stuck my metaphorical fingers in my metaphorical ears and pretended the weather was more, err, metaphorically spring-like.

"I can't hear you, snow, I can't hear you."

If I click my heels together twice and wish upon a star, will this come back tomorrow?

What Temperature Is It, Mr Squirrel?

Usually I am not a big fan of overpriced-aimed-directly-at-kids garden implements, but this squirrel thermometer is pretty cute. It suctions to the window and on the other side (the part that faces into the room) is a large thermometer. FDPG got it at a gardening store that was closing its downstairs storage shed and selling everything off cheap. I'd gone there to see what they had left, because it's one of those garden stores that, while it's trendily expensive (plain old garden net that sells for $5 at the hardware store goes for $9 here), also carries the odd brilliantly cool new gadget. And I have a weakness for brilliantly cool new gadgets, even if I never buy them.

Anyhow, I'd received an email about the sale so we popped in. I found a great wire topiary base in the shape of a snail, that was originally $110 but was now on sale for $10 (gosh, I wonder why no one would buy it for $110? sheila wonders sarcastically) that I plan on filling with moss and baby tears. I also found some red metallic tape that supposedly deters birds for $1, down from $13.95 (gosh, I sense another sarcastic remark coming on). And then FDPG, who has a penchant for taking her fat little purse everywhere, scooped up this thermometer squirrel - for $1, down from $23.95 (we were giddy at this point, lemme tell you). If you look carefully at the picture you can see why: he has a slight chip at the bottom of his leaf.

But FDPG doesn't care. She loves him. And every morning she asks him "What temperature is it, Mr Squirrel?" Then she comes upstairs and tells me. And now I'm telling you.

Oh, and by the way, that red metallic tape that I bought for $1? It seems to be extremely effective so far. One side is silver, the other shiny red, and it makes a shivery noise when the wind blows it. It took some getting used to, though. We've all had more than a few moments when we've jumped at the feeling of it suddenly whispering in the wind. Kind of spooky.

Plant Tags

Finally, something to do with all that weird foam board people give us. FDPG has accumulated a ton of this stuff, mostly from people who don't know what to give her on her birthday. I know, I know, there is a whole sub-culture dedicated to this stuff, and I know I could find 4 zillion amazing craft ideas if I wanted to, but something in this stuff repels me. It's not as strangely compelling as this stuff was, either, so instead of wildly crafting our days away with it, it tends to get shunted to the back of the craft box.

But I digress.

(today I celebrate the foam board, not denigrate it)

This morning I was hauling out some books for a session of Garden Mania when the words PLANT TAG caught my eye. I don't know why or how, but suddenly a picture of a coloured wooden stick with some fakeplasticycutoutvegetables on it appeared in my mind. (really, it did) Aha! I thought, finally a use for all that weird foam board.

So I hauled out the wooden sticks, the glue, an indelible marker and that foam board. Boy, did we have a lot of colours. Perfect for all those red carrots, yellow beets, and yellow pear tomatoes we're about to grow. We outlined, clipped, examined seed packets to check verisimilitude, and thought long and hard about what colour matched which vegetable best...well, FDPG some of us did.

Plus, it's something fun for the twins. I often worry that they are dragged up to the level of their older brother a bit more than they'd like, in my never-ending quest to keep them all interested when we do group activities. And this was a pleasantly arty hour, drawing and cutting and gluing and writing in gold pens. I'm not sure how they'll survive the outside weather, but they should do just fine in the seed starter bins.

Gardening With Kids

When I'm out in the garden I often get so involved in a particular project that I forget to take note of the kids, a fact which does not escape them. "You forgot about us, didn't you?" Dominic said accusingly to me the other day, as I trudged in from a few hours breaking up clods in the vegetable patch. "How could I forget that charmingly grouchy look on your charmingly grouchy face?" I wanted to reply, but something (some random snippet of maturity?) prevented me. Instead I smiled, and said "Why don't you start gardening too?" And then immediately panicked at the thought of having to find garden space for all three kids, because if there's one thing I can be sure of, it's that one of my kids won't ever get away with doing certain things while the other two are still sentient and within a 5 mile radius of the house. Some of those things include:

a) eating the last chocolate mint Girl Guide cookie
b) eating a cookie period
c) drinking anything carbonated
d) eating pepperoni
e) watching television
f) fiddling around on the computer
g) consuming anything from the bottom drawer in the kitchen, the one that contains all the baking ingredients

Hmm, there is a theme here, isn't there? The consumption of junk. These things just don't happen often enough around here for my kids' liking. Ah well, I tell them, blame it on me and my Puritan childhood. My mother was one of those Early Yoga slash Health Food slash Oddballs in the 60's and 70's. Along with her penchant for Dippety Do, she had a passion for Rye Vita, 'natural' yogurt, brisk walking, and celery. And she visited these leanings on her kids. I grew up dreaming of the day when I would be Grown Up, and have unlimited access to things like Pop Tarts and all the Godfather movies I could stomach. And now, somewhat disconcertingly, I'm just as parochial in my junk leanings with my own kids. They do have junk in their lives, let me hasten to assure you all, in case you think them deprived. They just don't have a lot of it.

Hmm, where was I?

Oh yes, promising Dominic a room garden of his own.

Anyhow, as soon as the words exited my mouth, and as soon as I could see excitement kindle in his eyes, I could feel the ears of the other two prick up, sensing that Something Critical was happening without them being present. Even though they were in completely different parts of the house, I knew they knew. They're like something from a sci-fi movie, this lot.

Before I could turn around, they were all in the yard with me.

"Did you say Dominic could have a garden of his own?" FDPG asked me, forgetting that I had already told her ages ago she could have a section of the garden, but she had shrugged it off at the time, seeing her Webkinz garden, which produces miraculous quantities of pumpkins, strawberries, and corn at the merest click of a mouse, as vastly superior to the real thing. Less work, too.

"Dominic has a garden?" Max echoed, "Where?"

I sighed. "You can all have one if you want one," I said, mentally adding "you bat-eared children, you."

And so it was that one fine day, a week or so back, we were all outside sieving soil and emptying compost bins. And mentally calculating whose garden was going to be the biggest.

Here is Max, assisting me in removing the roots of an unidentifiable and (to me) irritatingly invasive weed from the perennial bed. This was before he had to empty the contents of the compost bin on his garden plot. He wasn't too thrilled about packing great heavy wheelbarrow loads of compost up and down that hill of ours, so I refrained from getting too giddy with the camera. I may be an identifiable and sometimes irritatingly invasive presence in the life of my kids, but at least I know when not to take a picture. Yeah, right, who am I kidding?












Here are the twins, ensuring that no worm's tender body will be squished by the soil screen. A great deal of gentle shrieking accompanied this venture. And so it is with a clear conscience that I can assure you that no worms were harmed during the taking of this picture.












And here are their gardens, once we'd finished terracing, emptying compost bins, and raking nicely sieved soil all around.

Can you tell if one is bigger than the others? I hope not.
They go in this order: FDPG's garden, Max's garden, and Dominic's garden.


Then, once we'd ascertained that we all had a spot on the plot, we gave some thought to what we all wanted to grow. I had a catalogue from this place, with lots of helpful pictures and growing charts, and sat with the kids beforehand with the idea of making a vague list of things they wanted to grow. FDPG wanted pumpkins and watermelons, Dominic wanted carrots, broccoli, and lettuce, and Max wanted onions and garlic. My wants were more modest: I wanted to keep a firm grip on how much garden I'd be left with.

I drew a chart to show them how long some of these things would take to grow.
"A hundred and fifty days for a PUMPKIN?" said FDPG. "Yep," I said. "And it's too early still to seed half this stuff."

That put a bit of a damper on things, but once we got to the seed store they perked right up again. We bought seeds for pole beans (Fortex Filet), lettuce (Looseleaf Salad Bowl), tomatoes (Yellow Pear), and scallions (Pacific 22). We bought seeds for pumpkins (Rouge Vif D'Etampes), watermelons (Sweet Dakota Rose), and Butterfly Weed (for Max's Butterfly Garden Project). And then, in a twist of goofy fortune, Max found a 'Maximilian' Sunflower and things began to get fun. We found red carrots (Atomic Red), yellow beets (Touchstone Gold), some super green tomatillos and three kinds of potatoes (Yukon Gold, Desiree, and Russian Banana). "Why is it called a banana when it's a potato?" FDPG demanded of the not-quite-ready-for-us store clerk. They didn't have everything we wanted: the Pink Popcorn popping corn wasn't in yet, nor were the teeny tiny Ronde de Nice zucchini seeds that FDPG coveted. And the Lumina white pumpkin she had circled in the catalogue wasn't in either. So we made a note of the seeds we wanted and departed, still with quite a haul.

The kids were giddy at this point, even though I brought the chart out again once we'd arrived home, and pointed out when we could start seeding things and when we could start expecting a harvest. The idea of red carrots and yellow beets and white pumpkins superceded any intrusions by such mundane things as calendars and space requirements.

Instead we started Garden Guides of our own: I gave each kid a soft cover binder and some nice paper (some pages I printed with Dover clipart adorning the corners) and we began sketching sunflowers and pumpkins and tomatoes on the paper, along with the names of each variety they bought. The theory here is that we detail our growing seasons, sort of how we detailed our One Small Square experiment.

All in all, it was a good days' work. And I didn't forget about them for a minute.

Some Fall On Stony Ground

Well, technically that should be tiled ground, but somehow "Some Fall On Tiled Ground" sounds cheesy, so I'm falling back on that old 'poetic license' excuse. Again.

We were exiting our gym drills location today when we happened upon a massive container of tile samples at the tile store across the street. Usually this store leaves their cast-off tile samples leaning against the outside wall at the back. Still on their boards. Unbroken, mostly. And we take them home with us. They're irresistible, those tile samples. They recline against the wall, calling to me with their siren's song. I can only resist when I see plain, shiny white tiles. I'm not big on plain, shiny and white. It might be because I hate housework and something so shiny and white only serves to remind me how much work it'll require to keep it shiny and white, but I digress.

This time there was, as I said, a massive container there. Even I, the Adorer of Free Tiles, could not take every single one of them. For one thing, I could see that it was either take all the kids home or take all the tiles. It could not be both. And, if I must be honest, some of the tiles were not to my taste (NOW the truth comes out! picky picky Sheila). And you thought I was hesitating about leaving my kids, now, weren't you?

After sending Max in to the store to ask if we could take the tiles (it really did seem too good to be true), we rifled through to see what there was. I ignored Max reminding the twins, in a very world-weary and obnoxious older brother voice, not to wipe their dusty hands on their clothing LIKE LAST TIME because then they would get their clothes all DUSTY! (the horror of it) I found some beautiful samples. Some coloured ones. Some in what were called The Mermaid Series. Look at those colours! Tell me, could you resist those colours?












I also found a lot of these kinds: various shades of brown. Big squares, little squares, large rectangles, edging tiles, embossed tiles. And all with same beautiful natural look. (yes, I realize I am besotted with these tiles, but can you blame me?)

So we picked the lot up.

And Max put them in the trunk, while admonishing the twins THE ENTIRE TIME to stop messing with his packing methodology.

Sigh.

Some days are better than others, that's for sure. But these tiles more than made up for all the squabbling I was witness to today. And to think that they all SAID they were giving up squabbling for Lent.

And then, right at the bottom, I found these (what? you're surprised I emptied the entire container?).

Two very large pieces of black slate. Don't know what I might do with them, because I suspect they'll be too slippery for paths. But they were too perfect to leave in that bin.




Then, in a very strange coincidence, we came across some packages of paving stones. I say coincidence, because it was only yesterday that I was at the most charming wholesale stone yard, out in the middle of nowhere, laughing with the most eccentric Portuguese fellow (and his cat Gato) about his paving stones.

I have this idea, you see, to build a path down the middle of my front yard. I want to erase all that lawn and make something that looks sort of like this: I have visions of artistically arranged cuts of sandstone interspersed with swathes of Scotch moss and Blue Star Creeper, magically appearing out of nowhere surrounded by ferns and other exotica, which means that I need to figure out how to a) place cuts of sandstone and b) get me some Scotch moss and Blue Star Creeper (and other exotica). And to add a frisson of excitement to the whole venture, I am hoping to do this for next to nothing because I have next to nothing in my bank account for as cheaply as I can.

So, there I was at the stone shop, inquiring into the costs of large artistically shaped pieces of sandstone. I was led around by the charming Pietro, who was in turn led around by his cat Gato. Gato was mildly intrigued by Max and I and clearly alarmed by the twins, so he never came too close, despite Pietro's best entreaties. The twins often have that effect: they move too fast and speak too enthusiastically and dart about too much for some cats. Not that that stops the twins, mind you. The twins love cats (almost as much as I love tiles), and were quite devoted in their attempts to lure old Gato near them, but old Gato was having none of it. Or them.

After discovering that I would be able to get some artistically shaped pieces of stone for much less than I'd expected to, I left Pietro and Gato, and headed home with the kids. I wasn't quite sure what to do: spend next week's grocery money or get some stones for a path.
Hmmm.
Then we came out of gym drills today and what did I find but the aforementioned whack of tiles. And, among them, these funny rounded squares. In little cardboard carrying cases. Like the kind the Fuller Brush man used to pack around. They were, according to their label, paving stones. Small, yes. Not enough for an entire path, true. But talk about coincidences.
It was though I was getting a message from up On High somewhere:

"Sheila you MUST make a path!"

(I just hope Emma Thompson doesn't descend from the heavens delivering this message though or I might have to hide because she was pretty scary in that show)

So there you go, My Date With Coincidence. Stay tuned for Part 2: The Path That Came To Stay.

Monday Monday

Today I went in to the endodontist to see what my Bad Bad Root was up to. I had to be there at the ungodly hour of 8am, too. No rest for the wicked, obviously. Usually I am just sitting down to a couple chapters of a read aloud (in this case: Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince), while the kids are eating their breakfast and slurping (in this case: FDPG) their tea. But no, there I was dashing out the door as the sun was just cresting the clouds, pink and blue sky beaming down on me like a guillotine. I mean, like a benediction. Last rites. 

Yes, I know, I AM morbid. You would be too if you had my teeth.

I get to the specialist's office and park. I stare at the parking sign. I wonder what it means. I think my brain was fogged with nerves, because it took me an abnormally long time to figure out how long I could expect to park there without getting towed. Or ticketed. 

I wait in the Group Waiting Room. I am not a fan of the Group Waiting Room. It's a bit too impersonal. There isn't enough scope for existential angst in a Group Waiting Room. I glance around at the seating arrangements. I realize that everyone is covertly observing each other. I hate being observed. Deprived of my last chance to work myself into a tizzy of despair, I stare down the hall at the less-than-fortuitous colour schemes instead. Terracotta walls, pink ceiling, slate floor, and slightly rumpled brown plaid chesterfields. Once Max confided in me that he hates the idea of sitting where someone has been farting before. I'm sure I laughed at the time, but this time I perch on the arm of the chesterfield, just in case. I examine the seating cushions closely. I wonder why I listen to 12 year old boys. I glance at my waiting room companions: a couple of grouchy looking old men, a worried looking older man, an older woman with distressingly maroon hair (and pink highlights), and me (no highlights). I try to find something redeeming about sitting in an office at 7:45 am on a Monday morning but I fail, so I wait for them to call me. 

I have my Consultation, for which I pay the sum of $113. And once again I am privy to the historical inadequacies of my previous dentists. This time it's an incomplete root canal, which has since morphed into a fake tooth, which means Complicated. Expensive. It requires furrowed brows and warnings of Potential Increased Expenditures. I lie in the chair and stare out the window while the gentle assistant speaks to me. I watch the rain pierce through wide streaks of hard, bright sunshine. It pours briefly while I'm shown an x-ray that supposedly shows where the infection has caused bone loss but really just looks gray and blurry. Rain batters the window. The sun disappears as though someone turns off a light. Suddenly I am bored of my teeth. Fed up. They are taking too much of my time. I am no longer going to let them overwhelm me like this. I consider telling the nice assistant this but decide that she will probably think I am batty, so I don't. Of course, it might have been because the older woman with the maroon hair with pink highlights is in the cubicle next to me, telling the other gentle assistant about her reactions to sulfa drugs. Her reactions are detailed with an astonishing disregard for either privacy or dignity. No, I think, I will not tell the assistant that I am bored with my teeth. So instead I smile politely and agree to return in a couple of months time. 

Then I get into the car and drive through the rain and wind and sun until I get home. Where a 12 year old boy is waiting on the front porch for me, waving a piece of paper, excited that I have come back, bad teeth and all. He runs out to the car and hugs me. I tell him that I am bored with my teeth. That they take up too much of my time. That they have overwhelmed me. He nods. And agrees with me. The image I had in my worried brain, of myself as a potentially maroon-haired-with-pink-highlights-overly-indiscrete woman, suddenly dissolves around me and washes away. What the hell, I think, I can always get dentures.