“Playing with Fire”

Bon fires are one of my favourite things about summer. There is something so mesmerizing about staring at a crackling fire; the lure of the glowing orange ambers, beneath the white stars, while slowly turning a sharp pointed stick in your hand with a gooey marshmallow on the other end, getting it just the right shade of brown. Ah, this is living. Too bad I’m not a man.

Only men are allowed to build bon fires, you know. They are also the only ones allowed to tend to them. It is the law, based on sacred rituals originating from the days of the cave men, where fire meant survival. Now it just means “my fire is bigger than your fire.” When it comes to a fire pit, men are down right primeval. Ladies, if you doubt this fact, at your next bon fire opportunity try this: pick up a log and say these words, “Can I just toss this one in?”

“Rain on Me”

On the morning of my fortieth birthday, I woke up before the dawn to the sound of rain. It was the steady downpour of water running off the siding on the house, dripping down the windows, pattering at the street. The air smelled fresh. The birds were quiet. The world was still. Heaven. The rain broke the streak of hot, humid weather that had gripped our region long enough to make me almost miss the snow. Almost. On this particular morning, as I opened my forty year old eyes, I was very aware that this rain was a metaphor of so much more than weather patterns. It was a sign.

In the music of that rain, I lay awake, reflecting on what I knew to be true in my life so far and what I knew I had the power to change in the next forty years of being Me.

“Bubble Wrap”

I’m not sure how this happened, but it seems that I gave birth to an athlete. It’s almost as perplexing as realizing that my beautiful, perfect, totally charming son does not, for reasons of his masculine chromosomes, think at all like I do. Despite our shared compassionate nature, somewhere deep beyond his awesome green eyes lies a Neanderthal.

It’s a friendly Neathderthal, to be sure. It’s linked genetically to the brooding, knuckle-scrapping alter-ego that lies dormant, except for rare moments, in the depths of his father’s psyche too. It seems inevitable that this alternate personality will spring forth and soon, very soon, my young athelete will get that look in his eye. You know that look? The one where logic and reason have evaporated and his temporary purpose in life involves running full throttle into the body of his sports opponent, free of mother-approved bubble-wrap security padding, chomping on the bit of a plastic mouth guard, with hard padding only protecting my future grandchildren’s production, and driven by testosterone with only one goal in mind: getting a ball/puck/football away from said opponent. Grunt.

“Oh Canada”

Oh Canada, my home and native land, as I prepare to celebrate your beauty by decorating my entire family in tacky flag clothing and slapping them head to foot in maple leaf peel-and-stick tattoos, I need to take a moment to declare my patriotic passion. It is important for me to honour your awesomeness with my own sense of Canadian-ness.

Why, we even share our birth month: July. That makes us both Cancers, Canada. Our sign is the crab, our element is water. We are ruled by the moon (your beautiful tides and my emotional sappiness; doesn’t seem fair). Astrologers say we are sensitive nurturers, fiercely protective of our loved ones and incredibly emotional and sensitive. We are likely to withdraw when things are too intense. We like our space. We are brilliantly creative, (go with me on this one, ‘cause I watched the Olympics and we totally rocked the house), and also loyal and kind. We both like to keep the peace, but have an undercurrent of anarchy. We are not perfect, though. We make mistakes, but we also forgive them in others. We love to apologize. Best of all, we’re funny. We’re not afraid to laugh at ourselves. That’s us, Canada.

“Out to Lunch”

School is almost over. The countdown is on. This means I will have to remember how to keep my children occupied for seven consecutive days in a row, twenty-four hours a day.  This scares me. But there is one thing I will not miss: packing lunches.

I take no pleasure in this task. None. It’s about as much fun for me as cooking dinner. I am not sure how food preparation fell into my role of household responsibility, but I wish there was a domestic union to back me up in protest. I’d belong to Local 27, Domestic Engineers and Household Neuroscientists; freedom fighters for domestic justice.

Lunch preparation is a lot more complicated than when I was a kid. Life-threatening food allergies, food safety and the possibility of making something weird are all apt to make your children social outcasts. You have to pack smart. Your child’s reputation depends on the delicate balance of nutritionally cool foods and reusable packaging choices.

“For the Carpenter”

Imagine being married to someone who publishes your personal life in a newspaper that goes county-wide every week. The Carpenter, my spouse, is a real trouper. So I ask that you allow me this forum to wish the Carpenter a happy Father’s Day.

Parenting is not for the weak of mind or stomach. What should be the happiest event in your life can also wreak havoc on your relationship, sex life and your budget. You don’t see it coming. Oh sure, people warn you that parenting is hard work that never ends, but you don’t listen. You think a mortgage and car payment makes you all grown up. You think that your relationship is rock solid and nothing will ever crack the foundation, especially when you marry a guy who builds foundations for a living. But life happens.

“Romeo oh Romeo”

My life is a Shakespearian comedy. Take last Friday morning, for example. Everything was going according to plan. Lunches were packed, school bags organized, children fed, even I was dressed for a client meeting. It was an otherwise typical day in the plot of my story. Then I heard these fateful words; “My hamster is missing!”

Oh, come on.

Running up the stairs, I found two children in tears and a hamster cage with thin metal bars, one of which had been gnawed through and pulled back for the purpose of a grand escape. It was a hamster jail break.

“Road Trip”

There has been a lot of talk in the media lately about the dangers of driving while text messaging. Mobile phones must be hands-free. Even iPods and other techno gadgetry are off limits. However, I can think of a driving impairment far more dangerous than any of the above: spiders.

It only takes one hot day with my window slightly ajar, and the spiders swing over and slide on in. I bet they pretend to test drive my station-wagon, make vroom-vroom sounds, turn on the radio and call in a few buddies. Then they munch on the crumbs of TimBits and Gold Fish crackers in the back of my car. For a hoot, they put their beady, bulging eyes behind my sunglasses too.