Alligators Are Green

On occasion, when asked to read a book I've read way too many times, I will start getting silly with Pumpkinpie, and messing around with whatever word is most commonly recurring. I like my green mitts the best. She takes delight in correcting me and laughs like crazy. No, mommy! I like my RED mitts the best! So I started to play this game tonight reading from Clifford, the Big Red Squirrel. And her corrections were cracking me up and amazing me at the same time. I just love the mini-adult speech she employs these days. It went like this...

KP [Reading]: Other kids I know have dogs, too. Some are big dogs. And some are red alligators.
PP: Actually, alligators are green.
But I have the biggest, reddest goldfish on our street.
Well, goldfish are usually orange, mommy.
This is my mouse - Clifford.
No! He's not a mouse! Mice are more greyish.

By the end, when Emily Elizabeth declares that she will keep Clifford, Pumpkinpie informed me that she would keep Sally, her newly named doggie. And that Sally was browner than Clifford, and smaller, too.

Well, I suppose dogs are usually more brown, actually. Good gravy.

On The Streets Where We Live

My street this past week got hit with a microburst, with devastating results.

Ouch. This hurts. These big old trees are a great part of my neighbourhood's appeal, and they took a massive hit. A few were ripped up by their over-80-year-old roots, leaning heavily on hydro poles.
Some lost half their canopy or major limbs. A few lost all of their leaves, and will have no way to feed themselves this year. I hope that doesn't mean death of more of these beautiful old living things will be coming. We've lost a few in the past few years already, but this was about the same number again in one fell swoop.

These are the trees that I have walked under most of my life. The trees that were too big to climb or tie a skipping rope to, but perfect for lying under with a book, or for sheltering a picnic. Trees that dropped their leaves in great rustling piles every fall, covering sidewalks calf-deep and filling gutters, so that on rainy days, someone could always be seen pushing aside heavy, wet masses of them to let the water flow to the drains. Leaves we all had to rake and took delight in jumping in and burying ourselves under. Trees that pushed up mounds in the lawns, creating little mossy hollows just the right size for child-sized buttocks, sometimes even heaving up big squares of sidewalks, creating awe in a child's mind at the strength and insistence of nature. Trees that meant the streets of my childhood and my today are filled with birdsong and dappled with light and shade. Trees that rustle pleasantly in the breeze and shade the old houses below. Trees that sheltered the squirrels I stop to talk to and the raccoons I have chased off my roof. Trees that made for pleasant going as I walked with my baby every day of Pumpkinpie's first year. Trees that we have taken for granted in their age and strength until these past few years, when every storm has exacted a toll, but none as great as this.

I'm sorry to see you go, old friends.

Eight Things Before Breakfast

Okay, I'm late to the party, but finally getting around to the "eight things you don't know about me" meme that was going around some time earlier this month or hell, maybe even last month. I read some interesting responses about some of you, so I thought I'd put a few things out there in reply, though they are not that earth-shattering...

I am a walking warning against piercings.
At 18, I pierced my own nose, and wore the nose pin for a good few years until it got infected and yucky. Along the way, though, I developed a blue spot around the piercing site which a dermatologist thinks was a silver deposit. (?!) But for some ten years, I had people coming up to me "helpfully" telling me I had some ink on my nose, and eventually, it grew old. So I had to have a plastic surgeon cut out a piece of my nose to remove it. Let me tell you something: having four needles in your nose to numb it? May be one of the worst pains I have experienced. The surgeon said that noses and soles of feet are about the worst places to need an injection. Great. But it looks pretty okay now, so I'm pleased, but will be recounting this story to Pumpkinpie when she gets older, and suggesting that she look for places that wouldn't be disastrous, should things go wrong. Right on your face may not be that place, you know?

I am the queen of clutter.
I was thinking of this when Mama Tulip wrote about her mother's lifetime of collected things. Of things beautiful and precious that she loved to surround herself with. It's funny - my parents are the opposite, but I am a collector. From way back, I brought home rocks and shells and pretty scraps of paper. I love beautiful objects, and I look forward to being able to build in real homes for them when we start renovations in a few years, homes where they won't be just more of the random clutter of boxes and shelves stuffed full like they are now.

Though I would never claim to be outdoorsy, I love nature in an immeasurable way.
My mom always said I was some sort of golden nature child. That she would lay me under the shade of a tree, and I would watch, mesmerized, as the leaves danced and swayed while she read for long, quiet stretches. I remember lying on hillsides and eating grass and dandelion stems, their milky white sap making my fingers sticky, lifting my chin to the breeze and squeezing my eyes shut like a cat with the pleasure of it. When my mother would throw me out the back door and lock it behind me to force me out of my books, my passtime would be to lift rocks and wood, discovering the pill bugs and other creatures that lived underneath, to trap flies and pop them into tubes with cotton balls soaked in alcohol, then examine their filmy wings under my microscope. I would sit for half an hour, watching an ant or ladybug traverse all angles and surfaces of my hand, fascinated by their tiny legs struggling on and on, undaunted. I talk to squirrels, who stop to listen, feed crumbs to birds, and whistle them a good morning. Some of my favourite smells, the one I was thrilled for on my return from concrete NYC to greener Toronto, are of fresh dirt, of rain in the air, of green things growing. I love the idea of being going back to nature, becoming part of the trees and growing things around us. And I love teaching Pumpkinpie about the flowers, the trees, and the birds.

One of my second toes is longer than the third, and one is shorter.
That's all. It's just odd. My mom used to say there was some old wives' tale about how if your first toe was longer, it was a sign of royalty, which is why I noticed it in the first place, comparing them side-by-side with her longer, bonier toes.

I have a gift for gifts.
As I have often been told. Thing is, I pay attention. I pay attention to what people like, what they wear, what they have in their homes, what they buy themselves, what colours they like, what they read, what their hobbies are. When you know a few things about someone, then you see things that remind you of them. And I buy things for people whenever I see them, and stick them in the gift closet. Yes, I have a whole closet full of gifts and gift wrapping at the moment, and it means that most years, I don't have to do much in the pre-holiday rush, just tackle those few tough people, and handle cards, stockings, and wrapping. Birthdays, too, can often be covered from a drawer of cards and closet of gifts. Generally, I have had people tell me that I do really well on their presents, simply because I go by what I have noticed about them already.

I have a costume box.
My own, not Pumpkinpie's. She has her own. So what's up with my own? I love dressing up for Hallowe'en, and over the years have collected up wigs, dresses, aprons, hats, and so on, so I can whip out one of a small selection of costumes on a moment's notice, and I even have a couple for Misterpie, too.

I feel incomplete without art.
I suppose this is partly related to the love of having lovely things around me, and partly from growing up with my artistic mother. I haven't moved into a place until I have art on the walls, at least some of it. I unpack art before many other things, right after the basic kitchen and bathroom stuff and the essentials of clothing. I have a box or tube or two of art that has yet to be framed, awaiting the right spot on a wall or the money for framing properly. Much of it is from my mother's hand.

I am shy about talking to individual people of a group, but I have gotten to the point where talking to a group is easy. This seems backwards to me, but there it is.
I can only assume it's a combination of all the practice we got in library school and the many, many, many storytimes and computer training sessions and literacy workshops and whatnot that I have given in the years since. I think I got over a lot when I was picked to tell a story (not read, tell) in an auditorium in front of 250 other children's librarians. That's a tough crowd, so after that, I had one of those if I can do that, I can do this things to draw on. But god, at a party? You better come talk to me, because I cannot make myself approach other people. I'll be the one in the corner, hiding behind my beverage.

Making It Up

While I'm on the subject of beautification...

I was having brunch with Sisterpie and our cousin, when the subject of makeup came up. And I had a question that has been bugging me for some time. So now I share it with you. Maybe you have answers? Maybe you have the same questions? Here's the thing...

You feel like you don't really know anything about how to apply makeup, and don't really have much practice, and it always seems to look weird on you, like you're a too-young kid trying on your mom's makeup, or like you're trying to be someone else, or like it just doesn't really suit your face. Too heavy, too stagey, too tarty, not well done, whatever. So how do you go about learning? If you're me, you read. As with everything. A magazine, perhaps, or a book on cosmetics and how to apply them. And you are no better off than when you started.

You see, it seems that all instructions are based on the assumption that you either have flaws you are trying to correct or have some knowledge of the geometry of faces. Which, really, I don't get. How do I know?

If your eyes are wideset... If your eyes are too close together... If you have almond eyes... If you have oval eyes... If you have a long nose... If you have a wide nose... If you have a heart/square/oval face... If you have full lips... If you have thin lips...

How do you know?!? How do you know what is considered wideset or close, heart-shaped or diamond, full or thin? And if your face isn't bugging you in some way, if you don't have some perceived flaw that you obsess over? I'm not saying I have a perfect face, just that I'm fine with it. It's fine. So then what? Where do I start? I don't know much about this stuff, but it would be nice on some occasions to know how to look a little more polished, but it seems I'm on my own for figuring out how that might work. Anyone out there good with this stuff?

What Not To Share

Pumpkinpie's TV consumption is and has been (except for one disastrous failure to edit a Spiderman commercial on time), closely guarded. She watches programming intended for preschoolers, without commercials, and small doses of sports with her father for company. But recently she woke up early from her nap when I, tuckered from bathttub scrubbing (which, may I say, loving the magic eraser thingummy!), had sat down to watch What Not To Wear for a bit until she woke. But she woke up early, as I say, and came down during the haircut segment, still playing. And wondered what was going on.


So how to explain to your toddler about a show that is, in essence, a makeover show? Without teaching her what you don't want to teach her about the value of a woman and the emphasis we put on beauty and the source of self-esteem and why anyone would care what she wore or what she looked like? How to talk about things like what "looks better" on someone rather than what they like? And why that matters?


For an older child, a teenager, I would have an easier time addressing this stuff. Because she would already know much of what society values. Because some of those lessons and some of my lessons about what I value would have been internalized, others not, and we could work from there, from which of those things she had taken in. And because by that age, it starts to matter more how they present themselves and what message they give. But I'm not going to start putting this stuff on her yet, when she should be free of it completely, when she doesn't need to start navigating that territory yet.


And so I chose my words carefully, perhaps even haltingly. And I told her that the woman wanted to change her hair, that sometimes people like to try something different, that she thought it looked nicer that way, that people can do different things with their hair if they want to. And that she wanted to learn how to use makeup to try out looking a bit different, that she could use it to show off things she really liked about her face or use it to dress up fancy like a costume if she wanted to.

Pumpkinpie sees me putting on a dot of concealer some mornings, a pat of powder to set it, and asks for some, too. I give that to her. I figure it's better not to make a big deal out of it. We dress up fancier for parties, usually in dresses, though if she wants to wear pants or shorts, I let her. I want her to think she can wear what she's comfortable in. I let her go to daycare with several barrettes spaced around her head the other day - it looked absurd, but she was happy with it, and apparently no one said anything, because she came home with them, too. I have heard/read some parents saying that they don't tell their daughters they are pretty because they don't want them to think that matters. I do tell Pumpkinpie she's a beautiful girl because let's face it, it does matter, it is a part of a girl's self-esteem, and how many times have you heard people say that no one ever told them they were pretty and it made them feel terrible? To me, the thing is to also tell her that she is smart, and a good singer, a good runner and kicker and jumper, that she is strong, that she is nice, that she is a good friend, that she is many things, that she can choose for herself, and that she can be proud of her accomplishments.

But I must admit, as I am newly faced this week with a flood of gendering from Pumpkinpie, apparently acquired in the new environment with older children that she finds herself in now, I wonder. How much will what I say mean? She's informing me of these things
Only girls like pink. Pink is for girls.
I don't like boys. I don't want them to play at my house.
with a confidence and conviction that makes me cringe. She sounds so sure, how can my protests to the contrary stand up to a room full of peers? Does it start now? Am I gearing up for a losing battle starting at the tender age of three?

Flashing Before My Eyes

This weekend Misterpie, Pumpkinpie, and I walked home from the park. I was in the lead, and heard the wheels of the tricycle dragged by Misterpie begin to cross the street behind me, off of our path.

I turned and asked a question that ended as a shriek.

Where are you GOING?!

as my vision filled with the image that has been burned into my brain ever since.

A tiny child, with golden hair and her favourite pink sundress trotting, trusting, after her father. In the background, a couple of carlengths back, a shiny black car, chrome grill gleaming wide.

She kept crossing behind him, the car passed my gaping, frozen form without incident. Misterpie had scooped her up and was talking to her, telling her he should have told her to stay with me. He hadn't realized that she would follow. I crossed the street to them. I said nothing. I couldn't. There was nothing I could say that would not be an irretrievable attack. I could only hope that Misterpie was as angry at himself as I was at him. He was. There was nothing I could say that would not make the whole thing worse.

And so I sat in bed that night, wide awake at 2:00 am, uncharacteristically unable to sleep as I felt both worried and relieved at that image flashing again and again on my mind's eye until my body mercifully shut down my brain for me. But before it did, I found myself realizing that to use up one of your own nine lives is scary, but to watch your child's life flash before your eyes is terrifying. A few days later, I still hug her, run my hands across her silken skin, and smother her in kisses in even greater quantity that usual. Checking, feeling relief, over and over. Still in one piece. Thank heaven.

Glass Shards

Because I know you've all been positively writhing in suspense... here are the finished panels for that piece I was working on.


Turns out I, ahem, forgot to measure twice before I cut and have to router out a bit on the frame as well as stripping it and such, so there's a bit to go before it's assembled fully, but at least the glass part is done and I've started on the next one.

Up next, I'm doing one I really like. I took a very traditional design, sort of Bungalow-ish, a design I like on its own:It's a piece that begs for the use of gorgeous art glass in those little framed squares up top. I'd expect to see this with some browny-greens, maybe with pops of red or opal. But by using different colours than I would for a traditional reading, I'm making it about spring flowers.

I love taking something and making it look just a bit different with something as simple as colours. I also relish that I am getting to use some gorgeous glass in it. I must admit, one of the things about doing this that makes my heart sing a bit is that the materials themselves are so wonderful. The people who make the glass are artists in their own right, creating beautiful, beautiful sheets of glass. It feels like such an honour to get to use it. I imagine it's what a foodie would enjoy about using really good ingredients.


I like this one enough that I think I'm going to do it a couple of times. I'm making three of the skinny, two-flower panels you see here to go in a three-pane frame, I'll make a pair of three-flower panels for a frame with two larger openings, and I'm going to make at least one single three-flower panel as well, and have Misterpie create a frame for it to hang in Pumpkinpie's new room come fall. If my friend's new baby is a girl, she may get a panel for that room, too, if she'd like one (her baby room is light green, it would look lovely!). What can I say, I love the spring-y green, the swirling clear background glass, as if a light wind's kicked up, and the pops of colour on the flowers themselves. It's lightening my mood just to work on it, even on a grey day.

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Meanwhile, about naming the business, Misterpie gave me another idea - something to do with morning. And I've decided to pass on the puns, much as they appeal to me on some levels, and make it more about imagery. So I'm now thinking it could be either Carroll-related: Glass Alice or Cheshire Glassworks, or else morning-related, like Morning Glory Glass or Morningstar Glass. Another thought would maybe something with Iris, being as that's both about seeing (as in the iris of an eye or camera) and the goddess associated with the rainbow, as well as one of my fave flowers. I do still like Paper, Glass, and String, though. Sigh. I'm still sleeping on this, and open to ideas or votes! I am one indecisive kitten, I'll tell you that.

Respite

After Wednesday's grouchy outburst, I had a much-needed nice morning yesterday. Ahhh...

Pumpkinpie woke up in the night screaming, flailing, unconsolable, unapproachable, possibly from a dream, for the second time this week. But in the morning, things were going along hummingly. And so, even though I was starting later at work, I decided to take her to daycare over an hour before I really had to, just so as not to disrupt the flow of a pleasant, agreeable morning. I thought we really needed a success to break the streak we've been on. And so, in a congenial mood, we walked to daycare and she went in without a cling or a whimper. Yay!

Which left me an hour to pick up a breakfast bagel, mosey home to enjoy it with coffee and Ellen, and get dressed for work at a leisurely pace.

On the way home, I stopped to observe a baby squirrel, still small and fuzzy, hopping through the generous, leafy green of a garden. Adorable. I know I'm feeling better when I can take a moment like that instead of stomping by with my head wrapped in it's frowny fog.

It's a little thing, but oh my, what bliss!

(And thank you guys for nice comments!)
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And because I can't resist sharing hilarious Pumpkinpie moments: this morning, I found her peeling her banana using both hands and feet together. And she thinks it's funny when I call her a monkey...

Desperate Measures

I feel like I've been doing this a lot. Begging and scraping about being a bad blogger. Bitching and moaning about how I'm at the end of my rope and my child is making me insane. But guess what? Here I go again. Because I'm hating things right now.

I'm hating that I don't have any energy or brain power left by the end of the day. And that the same things that leave me drained and leave me lacking in inspiration or things to talk about. And that even if I was so inclined, it's report card season at the House Of 'Pie, so I don't get to the computer at all, so any small blogging efforts are wedged in on breaks and quiet times at work.

I'm hating that Pumpkinpie is having a tough transition and making our mornings hellacious. She's moving into a new age group at daycare, and it's all new - new room, new bathroom, new teachers, more kids, less coddling. I get that that's a lot of what's going on, but she's still making me crazy. Mornings just shouldn't have to be this tough. It shouldn't take half an hour to eat a fucking bowl of oatmeal. She shouldn't undress just to slow things down. She shouldn't pee on the floor on purpose because she doesn't like me getting angry. I shouldn't have to lose my shit every morning. I shouldn't have to give up on riding my bike to work on a perfect day like today because I don't have time after all the stupidness. I shouldn't have been late every day this week. And I shouldn't be arriving angry.

I hate that work is in flux for both Misterpie and I and I don't know where we'll be when and I can't plan anything and no one we work for seems to care or get that this is not a tenable situation. And I hate saying the same thing twenty times every day to the same kids who don't listen anyway, and I hate having to throw them out and then police them because they keep trying to sneak back in anyway, and I hate that I am starting to feel the urge to be mean to them. So not the person I want to be. It's wearing me down, and I need a fucking vacation.

I hate that my house is a sty because I don't have the time and energy to take care of my own home because it's being drained out of me. I hate that I don't have time or energy to do the things that I want to do, that give me joy in my life. I hate that I am not getting around to my glass, to riding my bike, to reading without pushing through tired eyes and headaches. I hate that I'm being tested for an ulcer or something else because my stomach hurts. I hate that it gets worse every Sunday night - and now that I've put that together, I hate that it seems I don't want to go to work so much, I'm getting physical symptoms. I hate that I have found myself contemplating what a joy it would be to get a disease or break a bone so that I could have a week or two off work, a week or two to rest, all by myself, to wallow in blissful solitude and silence without anyone being able to call it selfish. It shouldn't come to this.

End whine.

Beauty in Random Things

I was sitting in some training seminar or meeting one day, when a word caught the corner of my eye. On my neighbour's Starbucks cup was this quotation:

I don't know if something can be too colorful. Color is one of the great properties of glass and is more intense in glass than any other material. Imagine entering Chartres Cathedral and looking up at the Rose Window: you can see a one-inch square of ruby red glass from 300 feet away.

I asked her if I could read it more closely, and noted the source of the words. That evening, I googled the name, who turned out to be glass artist Dale Chihuly. Who is amazing. Seriously. Go and take a look at some of his work.

I love the notion of finding beauty in a random moment. Usually this means stumbling on a lovely street, an unexpected flower or bird, a drip suspended like a jewel from a leaf. But apparently, it can be found in the detritus of urban life, in a moment of mindlessly reading one of the swarm of words around us, too. How wonderful.